


Deductions of the Heart

by a_whisper_in_time



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Humor, Blow Jobs, Child Abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Coming Out, Daddy Issues, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Falling In Love, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Love Confessions, M/M, Parenthood, Past Child Abuse, SO VERY GAY, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Tension, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-04 16:14:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 34,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6665488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_whisper_in_time/pseuds/a_whisper_in_time
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I hate it when you do that." "Do what John?" Sherlock asks innocently, raising an eyebrow. "Deduce me." He shakes his head and mutters. "You're always deducing me." From the beginning of John and Sherlock's relationship, to the case that just might tear them apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Deduce Me

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this a while ago on FF.net and thought I'd finally get around to putting it up here as well. Post-Reichenbach fic.

"I hate it when you do that." John keeps his eyes on his laptop, determined to write up the case they had just solved while it is still fresh in his mind.

John turns his head to glance at his flat mate, who is sitting across the living room, fingers steepled under his chin, calmly regarding John.

"Do what John?" Sherlock asks innocently, raising an eyebrow. John sighs and turns back to his laptop.

"Deduce me." He shakes his head and mutters.

Silence.

"You're always deducing me." Sherlock grins but says nothing.

They are both remembering the same occasion.

It had been weeks after Sherlock "returned from the dead", when John's anger and betrayal had slowly begun to subside, and life in 221B Baker Street continued on, almost back to normal. Almost.

Sherlock noticed a change in John, one that was not fading with his initial anger at being deceived. Sherlock had crushed him. Ripped away the only thing John had, and left him with nothing. Because of that, Sherlock was able to understand why John refused to talk to him for days, refused to look at him even. But he knew that John would come to understand his actions, so he waited. Waited until John stood before him as he sat thinking. Waited as John stared, his eyes filling with tears. Sherlock watched as the tears spilled over and ran down Johns face, all the while John stared. He rose then, and took the smaller man into his arms, holding him tightly. Sherlock held John until his chest stilled and his eyes were dry. Then the army doctor pulled back, looked straight into those gray eyes, nodded once, and retreated to his room.

After that day, things began to return to normal. And that was when Sherlock noted the difference in John. He began to watch John, to study him as he made his tea, wrote his blog, ate his meals. He watched, and he deduced.

John could feel Sherlock's eyes on him during those weeks. He could almost hear that incredible brain whirring away; collecting data, storing it, coming to god knows what kind of conclusions.

Sherlock found he was surprised with what he discovered. All the data he had collected, all those thoughts and observations in his brain that were filed under "John" had pointed toward one conclusion. What really surprised Sherlock however, was the strength with which he prayed he was right. What was this tightening in his stomach when he thought of the behavior of this new John? This John that looked at Sherlock like he was afraid the younger man would disappear, that watched Sherlock when he thought the detective wasn't looking. This John that had something in his eyes that he was desperately trying to hide.

Sherlock decided an experiment was the only way to know for sure, and immediately set to work putting one in place. It began with a simple touch. John had been working on his laptop when Sherlock casually walked up behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder. It was not the first time he had touched John in this way, but with this new John, it was different. He leaned over to see what John was doing, hand still resting lightly on his shoulder. He could feel John tense ever so slightly, the doctor holding completely still as Sherlock examined the screen, face level with John's, only inches away. As he pulled back, Sherlock allowed his fingers to graze lightly over John's pulse point.

"Interesting." Sherlock remarked, and promptly threw himself on the couch. Sherlock continued on this way for a week, grazing John's skin with not so accidental touches. He needed to measure John's reactions. He let his arm brush the doctor's as they walked to a crime scene. Slid his hand across the back of John's shoulders as he walked past where the doctor sat. Let his fingers linger over John's when he passed him his cup of tea. He was even so bold as to place his hand on the small of John's back as he directed him through the doors to Bart's.

These touches were setting John's nerves on end, and Sherlock knew it. John's heart began to race whenever the detective was near, anticipating the contact, even though it rarely came when he expected. He tried to ignore it, but he knew Sherlock was up to something. He just wasn't sure he wanted to figure it out.

On the following Sunday, Sherlock considered John as he rose to make his afternoon tea. John returned to the living room, and handed one steaming cup to Sherlock. But before he could take his usual spot in his chair, Sherlock grabbed his wrist.

"Sit with me John." John froze and looked from Sherlock's hand on his wrist to his best friends wide, gray green eyes. Shrugging away his confusion John moved to sit beside Sherlock. Tea finished, John leaned back to enjoy some crap telly. For some reason, the good doctor found the head of a certain consulting detective resting in his lap, his long legs curled into his angular frame in a childlike position as he watched the screen. John froze again, bewildered at the younger man's odd behavior. After a tense few moments, John relaxed and let his hand fall lightly to the younger man's shoulder. Sherlock hummed softly and John wondered if he had imagined it. Hesitantly, he brought his other hand to rest in Sherlock's dark curls. He let the silky strands run softly through his fingers as he stroked the detective's head. This earned him another hum of appreciation that sounded to John like the purr of a cat, happily being pet.

They stayed like that for a while, Sherlock's head nestled in John's lap as John gently ran his fingers through the others hair. Satisfied with his results so far, Sherlock decided to initiate what he hoped to be the final phase of his experiment. Getting up from his place on the couch, Sherlock reached down and offered his hand to John. Blinking rapidly for a second, John took his hand, and allowed the detective to pull him to his feet. Sherlock gently pushed John's bangs across his forehead, letting his fingers trail down the side of John's face before stopping to rest on his shoulder.

"You need a haircut." Sherlock told him simply.

"Sherlock-" John said questioningly. But Sherlock ignored him. Keeping his gaze locked with the doctors confused one; Sherlock leaned in slowly, relieved when the other did not pull away, and touched his lips to John's. John sucked in a breath in surprise and gaped at Sherlock's smiling face. He bent down to kiss John again, this time lingering there a moment before smiling against his lips. Sherlock had taken John's wrist in the hand that was not resting on the doctor's collarbone, and was nonchalantly taking his pulse. He smiled into the kiss because he could feel its pace quicken, and when he leaned back to look into those blue eyes, he saw they were dilated.

"I was right." Sherlock said happily, not moving away from John. He was beginning to feel giddy in that way he did when he solved a puzzle. John knew that look, and he frowned more deeply.

"You're in love with me." John paled and attempted to step back. Sherlock just followed his movements however, keeping them close. John opened his mouth several times in an attempt to refute this statement, but he couldn't seem to find the words. He was still trying to get over the fact that he had just been kissed by Sherlock Holmes.

The most stifling minute John had ever experienced passed at an excruciating rate. Sherlock just stood there grinning, as John grew more and more uncomfortable. Finally, Sherlock backed away and began to pace. John plopped onto the couch, all too familiar with what would come next. As usual, Sherlock needed an audience for his genius, someone to appreciate his brilliant logic. So as he paced, he deduced John aloud.

"I would have discovered it much sooner, but you did not even know it yourself. You first realized you were in love with me when you thought I had died." John cringed, but Sherlock ignored it.

"When I was dead you realized you hurt for someone who was more than a friend, and regretted that you had not been able to tell me of your feelings before it was too late. Again, I would have noticed as soon as I returned, but your immediate anger hid those feelings. I had been expecting the anger you see, so it wasn't until after you began speaking to me again that I realized something was different." Sherlock paused to lock eyes with John, whose expression was blank. 'This is not happening' was all the doctor could think.

"You walked around as if you were trying to keep a secret, one you felt was obvious. You watched me when you thought I couldn't see, and when you thought I was sleeping. But you kept yourself distant, as if you feared I would find you out. Might I point out that it was your efforts to keep your feelings hidden that caused me to discover them. Honestly John, did you think you could fool me?" Sherlock scolded. John dropped his face to his hands, sighing heavily. He had been an idiot, falling in love with Sherlock Holmes of all people.

The world's only consulting detective dropped to his knees in front of John, gently pulling the doctor's hands away from his face. John opened his eyes to find Sherlock staring at him intently, concern on his face. This was usually the part where John told him how brilliant he was, except now, he was clearly distraught.

"The kiss?" John asked tiredly.

"An experiment." Sherlock stated simply.

"Of course." John mumbled to himself before nudging Sherlock aside and standing up. Anger bubbled up in his chest, battling with a deep hurt.

"You can't just play with people's emotions like that Sherlock!" John was one step away from screaming into the younger's man face. "Not everyone is like you." He added softly.

Sherlock rose and touched John's forearm gently. He jerked away as if he had been burned. A lump formed itself in Sherlock's throat, realizing he had done something not good.

"Don't touch me." John snapped. "This isn't one of your cases you bastard. I'm not a fucking experiment, I'm a person." Sherlock shuddered at the malice and raw hurt in John's voice.

"John." Sherlock said softly, almost pleading. John shook his head angrily and turned to storm out. Sherlock grabbed his arm and roughly pulled him around so they were once again standing face to face. John tensed as if to tear himself out of the taller man's grasp.

"John wait. Please." Sherlock begged. John stayed where he was but he didn't relax. Sherlock moved closer, so close that John could feel the detective's breath ghosting over his face. Sherlock tightened his grip, willing John to read in his eyes what he was unable to say.

"Take my pulse." John regarded him for a moment, unwilling to let go of his anger. There was something in Sherlock's voice that gave him pause, something in his eyes that John had not seen before. Slowly, John pulled his arm from Sherlock's loosening grip and felt for the detective's wrist. His pulse beat rapidly, heart pounding away in his chest. Sherlock's pulse never raced. John's brow furrowed in thought, unsure now.

Sensing his confusion, Sherlock leaned closer. Carefully measuring John's reactions as he closed the gap between them, placing a feather light, hesitant kiss to John's lips. John frowned at Sherlock, but held still as Sherlock moved to kiss at the creases in John's forehead. Unable to help himself, John sighed, his features relaxing.

"I don't think you're an experiment." Sherlock said softly.

"I know." John replied. Sherlock smiled at him again, and John reluctantly grinned back.

"You really are an idiot." John joked lightly, reaching up to ruffle those dark curls.

"I was still right." Sherlock pouted. John got on his tiptoes so he could reach the taller man's lips with his own.

"Shut up." John said against his lips. Sherlock only complied because he was too busy leaning into John's kiss, discovering John's taste, pulling John closer to him so that their bodies were pressed together.

John melted against Sherlock, parting his lips slightly in invitation. Inexperienced as he was, Sherlock didn't miss a beat, tentatively running his tongue along John's lower lip before beginning to gently explore the other's mouth. John groaned when their tongues met and something stirred within Sherlock. He was no stranger to arousal, but this was different because it was John. His John.

He deepened the kiss, allowing his hands to roam over John's body, feeling the tight muscle of his chest and stomach before pulling him closer to run his hands down the doctor's back. A whimpering noise escaped from somewhere deep in John's throat. Sherlock dug his nails into John's back, eliciting another moan from the doctor.

Gasping for air, John finally broke the kiss. He had one hand tangled in the now unruly curls on Sherlock's head, and the other gripping possessively on the detective's hip.

"Interesting." Sherlock panted, face flushed and eyes wild. John just laughed, amazed to see this brilliant man in such a state. Sherlock looked down between them, considering the growing hardness between his own legs. "Very interesting." He muttered.

John wondered briefly if Sherlock had ever had a hard-on before, but quickly banished the thought. Of course he had. Sherlock claimed to be beyond such things, but clearly that was not the case.

Feeling surprisingly bold, John grabbed Sherlock's hand, smiling as he led the detective to his bedroom. Said detective grinned smugly, relinquishing control to his doctor now that he'd proven he was right.

 

John snapped back to reality because he could feel Sherlock's tall frame looming behind him. The detective wrapped his arms around John's chest, his breath hot in John's ear. He began to hum softly, sending a shiver down the doctor's back. Sherlock gently nibbles at his ear and John struggled not to moan.

"Not now Sherlock. I want to finish this." John scolds, pulling his head away from the detective's mouth. Sherlock just tightens his grip, pulling the resisting man closer to him.

"No you don't." His silky reply came hot in John's ear, and went straight between his legs. He silently cursed his body for betraying him.

"Yes I do." John insisted stubbornly, once again attempting to pull himself out of Sherlock's grasp.

"Don't lie John, you're simply inept at it." John scoffs angrily and swats at the hand that is stroking his chest. Sherlock would not be deterred. He dips his head to John's neck, and ghosts his lips down to the smaller man's collarbone and back up to his jaw.

"Sherlock." John couldn't help but groan, lust fighting with his irritation.

"You don't want to write this now." Sherlock breathed into John's neck. "Actually, you don't want to write it at all."

"What makes you say that?" John asks softly, tilting his head so Sherlock has better access to his neck. Sherlock grinned, knowing he won.

"This case got to you, more so than other murders we've solved." Sherlock murmured into John's neck, not really paying attention to the conversation. John tensed and Sherlock froze.

"I've upset you." Sherlock spun John around so he could look into those blue eyes; they were guarded. Sherlock raises a hand to the side of John's face to gently run his thumb along his cheek.

"I don't want to talk about it." John says shortly. Sherlock stared deeply into his eyes for a long moment, and John wondered what he saw there. Suddenly, the detective's mouth curves into a wicked grin.

"Who said anything about talking?" John raised an eyebrow at that, but before he could respond, Sherlock's lips were on his, thoroughly erasing every coherent thought in his head.


	2. A Well-Oiled Machine

John snuggled his head into the crook of Sherlock's shoulder, pulling the detective's lanky form tightly to him. Two long arms wrap around him, squeezing tightly. They stay like that for a while, basking contentedly in their afterglow. Sherlock runs his fingers up and down John's spine softly, and occasionally presses light kisses to the top of his blonde head.

"Are you still upset?" Sherlock breaks the silence gently. John was quiet for a long while before answering.

"Yes." This case had shaken him to the core. It wasn't the most brutal or cruel case they had dealt with, but he couldn't get it out of his head. He had a feeling he never would.

"Because the victim was gay?" Sherlock whispered. John sighs deeply.

"His family didn't even know. Hell, his best friend didn't know." John shook his head sadly. "His murderer outed him." John pulled away from Sherlock so that he could look him in the eye. What he saw was concern, and curiosity.

"He was killed because he was denying who he was." John dropped his head to the pillow, turning to stare at the ceiling. Sherlock remained silent beside him.

"He was just a boy." John speaks so softly Sherlock can barely hear him. He props himself up on his elbow to look down at his army doctor, reaching his other hand out to rest on John's forearm.

"And look at me, a grown man, still living in the closet. My sister was married to a woman and I can't even bring myself to tell her I'm in- I'm sleeping with a man." John turns his sad eyes to meet Sherlock's gray gaze. John's face is like an open book. Sherlock could see pain, sadness, and guilt.

"Me and Harry aren't on the best terms, but if something were to happen to me… I wouldn't want her to find out like that." Sherlock bent to press a kiss to John's forehead, wishing he could somehow rid this wonderful man of all his doubt.

John closed his eyes and sighed, sliding his fingers into the curls at the base of Sherlock's neck and pulled the man down to kiss his lips. Sherlock hums softly and parts his lips, allowing John's tongue access to his mouth. They kiss slowly, John languidly exploring the warmth of Sherlock's mouth as the detective submits to the kiss. When they part Sherlock levels John with the full force of his piercing gaze.

"That's not what you were going to say." He breathes against John's lips. John's brows furrow in confusion.

"You said, 'bring myself to tell her I'm in-' and then you stopped and changed your mind. What were you going to say?" Sherlock is staring intently at John, who was struggling to concentrate under the intensity of those eyes.

"Um, what? I don't- I don't know Sherlock." He shakes his head, trying to dismiss it. Sherlock continued to stare at him; both men knew it was a cop out.

Abruptly, Sherlock is out of bed and pulling his boxers on.

"You can't even admit you're sleeping with a man, of course you can't admit you're in love with one." He mumbles angrily as he heads for the door. And with that he was gone, and John is left staring numbly after him.

Sherlock knew how John felt about him, didn't he? He'd proven it to himself, and to John, all those months ago. John had even admitted it to him that night when they laid together for the first time. Why did Sherlock need to hear it now? He was never one to need something repeated, and he never wasted time voicing aloud what was obvious. John didn't know why he couldn't say it; he loved Sherlock, and Sherlock knew it. But deep down John was afraid, because he couldn't bear to say those words to someone who would never say them back,

He had told Sherlock he loved him once, as best as he could, right before their first time...

Sherlock's body loomed over John's as he lay on his back in Sherlock's bed. Both men had stripped to their boxers, and Sherlock's hands and lips were busy mapping out the bare skin of John's chest and stomach. He needed to taste every inch of the man before him.

John ran a hand through Sherlock's curls and let out a moan as the detective sucked a nipple into his mouth. Sherlock grinned smugly, reveling in the noises he was eliciting from his army doctor. His eager tongue trails across John's chest to nibble and suck at his other nipple. John was writhing on the bed beneath him, one hand pulling fiercely at Sherlock's hair, the other splayed over his back, holding the younger man tightly to him.

Sherlock ground his hips down, causing their erections to slide deliciously together. John threw his head back and almost came right then and there. When he looks down to lock eyes with Sherlock, he sees that his pupils are blown wide with lust, and impossibly dark. Sherlock slides slowly down John's body, drawing another desperate moan from the doctor's lips, and runs his tongue tantalizingly along the waistband of John's boxers, from one hip bone to the other.

"Sherlock" John groaned, cursing how breathy his voice sounds. And Sherlock was there, claiming his mouth in a passionate kiss. Teeth and tongues clash as they desperately pull each other closer. When breathing becomes an issue Sherlock pulls away, leaving John gasping for breath. He then quickly latches on to John's neck and bites down harshly, marking him. John hissed at the pain, but moans as Sherlock circles his tongue around the bite, soothing the skin.

As he trails hot, opened mouthed kisses up and down John's neck, Sherlock's hands slide down John's body. He raised his head to lock eyes with John before sliding his hand below John's waistband. John's mouth falls open at the contact. Sherlock could feel his own erection grow impossibly harder at the sound that escaped those lips.

Sherlock began to pump his hand up and down John's cock, flicking his thumb over the head and twisting his wrist on every down stroke until John is screaming his name and coming in white hot bursts into Sherlock's palm. He wipes his hand on the sheets and slides back up John's body to place a tender kiss on his lips. John was slick with sweat, and flushed from head to toe. Sherlock leaned back to admire his usually uptight flat mate in this blissed-out state. It was a glorious site to behold.

Sherlock's eyes rake hungrily up and down the doctor's body. The possessive glint in those grey eyes was already bringing John's spent cock back to attention. Sherlock's gaze stops on John's returning erection. He smirks, playfully cocking an eyebrow in John's direction before leaning down and promptly taking John's entire length into his mouth.

John gasps as all his blood and senses rush into the shaft completely surrounded by the heat of Sherlock's throat and mouth. His vision swam, so he squeezed his eyes shut and threw his head back as Sherlock's tongue works it's magic. He had never been so thoroughly sucked off in his life. He could feel his climax pooling in the pit of his stomach, when suddenly he is hit with cold air. He groaned in frustration and looked down as Sherlock chuckled.

"Patience John." He chides lightly, tugging at John's boxers. John lifts his hips to allow Sherlock to remove his last article of clothing. Sherlock sat back on his heels to admire the naked man laid out before him. John flushed with embarrassment under the scrutiny of those eyes, suddenly feeling very self-conscious. When Sherlock locks eyes with John, all his insecurity melts away. Sherlock's eyes sparkle with desire and need, a look John knows is mirrored on his own face.

John wasn't used to being so submissive in bed, but Sherlock feels so damn good. He can't bring himself to try and take control. The detective was practically worshiping his body and he didn't want it to end. Not when he'd been imagining this for so long.

He needed Sherlock to dominate him. Needed him to prove to John that he was there and alive, that he wasn't going to disappear. John clung to Sherlock like his life depended on it, and gave himself over to the sensation.

Sherlock stood then, and slowly slides his pants off his narrow hips, letting them fall to his feet. His gaze never leaves John's. When Sherlock steps out of his clothes, John allows his eyes to roam down the detective's body. His own body is shaking with anticipation as he gazes down the smooth marble expanse of Sherlock's chest, the outline of toned stomach muscles, and finally to the part of Sherlock that has fascinated and terrified him since his "return from the dead".

Sherlock's impressive length is standing fully erect and leaking slightly. John shivers and involuntarily licks his lips. He suddenly wants more than anything to taste Sherlock, to pleasure him the way he had pleasured John.

Determination shines in John's eyes as he slides out of bed and to his knees in front of Sherlock. Sherlock can't hide his surprise as John leans forward and tentatively licks at his hardness. Sherlock moans deep in his throat as wet heat passes over the sensitive flesh.

Emboldened, John grabs Sherlock's hip and licks the underside of his shaft from base to tip, before taking the head into his mouth. Sherlock grabs roughly at John's hair as he swirls his tongue around the tip, and struggles to keep from thrusting into the man's throat. John is inexperienced, but Sherlock doesn't seem to be complaining, if his breathy encouragements are anything to go by.

"Yes John, just like that." Sherlock moans causing John to suck even harder. Sherlock can feel himself losing control, but he isn't ready to be finished just yet. Before John can bring him to completion Sherlock pulls away. John looks up at him in confusion, but takes the hand Sherlock offered to him.

"I'm not nearly done with you yet my dear Watson." Sherlock's voice is low and husky, his eyes full of lust. He pushes John back onto the bed and slides on top of him, their naked erections creating the perfect friction.

"I'm going to fuck you." Sherlock's breath is hot in John's ear. John's whole body reacts to those words. Sherlock rarely swore; the effect on John is instant. His breath quickens as his heart begins to race, nerves warring with eager anticipation.

"Have you ever done this before? With a man?" John breathes as Sherlock licks at his neck.

"Yes." Sherlock answers simply, just as breathless as John. His whole body is on fire, the need to claim John as his burned in his veins in a way he had never felt before. This man is his. Only his.

"You have not." Sherlock stated. It isn't a question, so John doesn't answer. Sherlock's hands are everywhere, his mouth following close behind, leaving no part of John's body neglected.

"Sherlock-" John's voice is barely above a whisper, laced with anxiety. Sherlock pauses in his ministrations and raises himself to John's eye level. He cups John's face with his hand and traces comforting circles on his cheek with his thumb.

"Don't be nervous John." John closes his eyes and sighs, leaning into the touch. This was Sherlock, the man John trusts with his life, the most important thing in his life.

"You're right you know." John confesses, opening his eyes to stare into those gray green orbs. "I do." Love you, is left unsaid, but they both know it's there.

"I know."

John raises his head to meet Sherlock's lips with his own, pulling the detective down to him. The kiss is tender and full of affection. It makes John's heart hurt. Sherlock deepens the kiss, overcome with emotions he never expected to experience. The kiss quickly turns hot and rough. Sherlock doesn't just want John, he needs him. Even more than he needs science, and logic, and deduction, Sherlock Holmes needs John Watson.

Sherlock quickly coats his fingers in the lube that he pulled from the drawer of his nightstand. John's body tenses at the initial intrusion, but he forces himself to relax when Sherlock whispers the command in his ear.

As Sherlock pushes in a second finger, he uses his other hand to stroke John's dripping cock, distracting him. Sherlock scissors his fingers, stretching John until he can add a third finger. John groans, not sure if it hurts or feels good, until Sherlock's fingers brush against something inside of John that makes him scream out in pleasure. Sherlock drives his fingers into John, hitting that sweet spot over and over until he has John writhing and begging for more.

"Please, Sherlock. I need-" John pants, desperate now. "Please!" Sherlock doesn't need to be asked twice. He coats himself generously with lube and positions himself over John. He freezes like that and waits for John to open his eyes. As soon as their gazes meet, Sherlock thrusts into John in one long stroke.

John's eyes water as pain rips through him and he bites his tongue to keep from crying out. Sherlock kisses away his tears and whispers for him to just hold on a few more seconds. John is so full it's overwhelming, but he soon found the feeling was not unwelcome. He moves his hips slightly, experimenting with the feeling of having Sherlock inside him.

Sherlock answered by pushing even further into John, directly hitting his prostate, and this time John didn't stop himself from crying out. Sherlock growled deep in his chest at the sound of John's pleasure and could no longer keep himself from moving. He pulled nearly all the way out before once again burying himself to the hilt in John. John was so tight. Sherlock knew he wouldn't last long. It had been years since his last sexual experience, and John felt so good.

He continued with those long strokes, falling into a rhythm with John that felt as natural as breathing. Grabbing John's cock he picked up his pace, stroking in time with his thrusts. John screamed his named as Sherlock rammed into him, pleading for Sherlock to go faster, harder.

Before long they were both climaxing, the other's name on their lips.

Sherlock collapsed on top of John, who wrapped his arms around the taller man's slender frame. John held Sherlock close as they came down from the high.

When his breathing slowed, and he regained control of his limbs, Sherlock pushed himself off of John and moved to lie beside him.

Sherlock rolled to face John, intently studying his face. John looked dazed, completely spent, and, Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief, happy. John grinned at him, and Sherlock couldn't help but smile back.

The sight of Sherlock's smile, a real genuine smile, caused John's own smile to grow. It was rare sight, Sherlock's smile, for Sherlock was rarely completely happy, or happy enough to openly express it. And now Sherlock was smiling that smile for him, because of him; it felt amazing.

Sherlock chuckled, feeling giddy. John's smile was like sunshine; it lit up his face, and stirred something within Sherlock that he was just beginning to understand. John made Sherlock happy, in a way that few things have ever been able to.

Soon they were both laughing, partly in disbelief, and partly because they were both utterly content. Still laughing softly, John leaned in to lightly kiss Sherlock, unable to believe what just happened, but so happy that it did. When they were finally silent Sherlock continued to observe John, amusement still glittering in his eyes.

John laid his head on Sherlock's chest, snuggling closer. He lifted his head up and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's neck. Sherlock sighed and wrapped his arms around the smaller man. He began to trail his fingers up and down John's spine absently, his mind lost in thought.

"John?"

"Yes Sherlock?"

"We should do that again." John raised his head to look Sherlock in the eyes. When he saw how serious and contemplative those eyes were he couldn't help but laugh. Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion. John just shook his head and moved to stand, pulling the tall, lanky man with him. He pulled Sherlock close, placing light kisses on his shoulder and up his neck. He bit lightly at the detective's earlobe before whispering softly in his ear.

"I could use a shower." He breathed suggestively. Sherlock felt his body immediately respond. He found himself nodding eagerly, taking John's hand and pulling him quickly toward the bathroom.

 

Now it was nearly a year later, and John gazed toward the bathroom, remembering all the showers he'd shared with Sherlock since that first time. They spent nearly every night in the same bed. Sherlock's bed had become their bed, and here John was, laying in it alone while Sherlock no doubt slept on the couch, if he even planned on sleeping at all tonight.

John was confused by Sherlock's behavior, and hurt that Sherlock seemed to expect a declaration from him when he would never give John one in return. Since the beginning of their "relationship" John had been counting down the days until Sherlock got bored of him.

Sherlock was high-strung, fickle, compulsive, antsy, and in a constant state of boredom. That state of mind is what drove Sherlock to the drug use that nearly killed him. John wasn't so naïve as to think he was something more than another distraction. Sherlock had given John no indication that his feelings at all matched the doctor's, and John had always been too afraid of the answer to ask.

Sherlock never talked about how he felt, about anything. He was a well-oiled scientific machine, and emotions wasted precious space in that brilliant brain of his. John knew that, and accepted it. He loved Sherlock, everything about him, even the parts that drove him mad. So John never pushed the issue, never tried to turn Sherlock into something he wasn't.

But now Sherlock had shown that he was not impervious to feelings, and John was unsure how to respond to it. Perhaps John had just been blind, too caught up within himself to recognize that Sherlock cared just as much as he did, but was unable to express it the way John would.

After hours of tossing and turning it was clear that John would get no sleep that night. Gathering his courage about him, he got out of bed and went in search of his flat mate. He found him on the couch, staring at the ceiling with his hands steepled beneath his chin. John cringed inwardly; this was the position Sherlock took when he was thinking through a particularly difficult puzzle, or delving very deeply into his mind castle. This was where he went when he was truly troubled.


	3. Doubt and Declarations

Sherlock's thoughts were in turmoil. He didn't understand the hurt he felt, or why he had lashed out. He only knew that John's refusal to admit his feelings twisted something painfully in his chest and left him feeling hollow and rejected.

Sherlock knew how John felt, but without confirmation, doubt was beginning to embed its way into his mind, spreading like a virus throughout his being. He was being irrationally emotional, and that made him uneasy. He was never emotional.

"Sherlock?" John announced his presence softly. He received no reply. He sighed and moved to kneel by Sherlock's head. He reached out to gently stroke those dark, silky curls. Sherlock's eyes stayed locked on the ceiling but John could see how his jaw clenched and his gaze became more guarded.

John watched Sherlock sadly; he'd been a fool. This man was so beyond him in intelligence, so much more evolved than anyone John had ever met, but when it came to matters of the heart, Sherlock was nothing more than an innocent child. Hopeful, moody, insecure, and most of all confused. John could see that now, looking at Sherlock, feeling his heart race as he waited for John to speak.

"I'm sorry." John whispered softly, still caressing Sherlock's hair. John hadn't realized before how much it hurt Sherlock that he was unable to admit to the world the nature of their relationship, that he could barely admit it to himself.

Thinking back, he could remember all the little ways he had rejected Sherlock in front of others, denied him because they were in public and John was afraid. Naturally that would cause Sherlock to doubt John's feelings for him.

He could hear Sherlock's questioning voice in his head, 'Why do you worry about a stranger's opinion of you?' John had been too concerned with his fear of coming out of the closet that he hadn't realized he was keeping Sherlock locked in there with him. And as if that weren't bad enough, John had failed to reassure Sherlock even in the privacy of their own home. In their most intimate moments, John still held back, refusing to voice aloud how deep his affection for the other man truly was.

John kissed Sherlock's forehead softly, then his nose, both cheeks, and finally his lips. Sherlock remained unresponsive; his only movement was to close his eyes. John placed a kiss on both of his closed eyelids

"Sherlock." John pleaded, desperate for some kind of reaction.

"Have your feelings for me changed? Or are you simply ashamed?"

"Sherlock?" John asked, his voice laced with worry and confusion.

"Can you not admit to loving me because you don't, or because you wish that you didn't?" John hated the hollow way that Sherlock spoke, as if he were detached from the conversation. John could think of nothing to say.

"From what I have observed of human interaction and romantic relationships I can only come to the conclusion that you are either 'stringing me along' as they say, or are ashamed to have feelings for someone such as myself and are therefore unwilling to admit to them."

Sherlock turned the full force of his gaze on John, causing his breath to catch against the lump in his throat. John could not escape Sherlock's piercing eyes, yet he was still unable to respond. His brain was struggling to register and react to the situation.

"I find that I am unwilling to accept either of these conclusions, but I am unable to see an alternative." John blinked lamely and stared open mouthed as Sherlock's words shocked him over and over.

"I do not wish to continue living as if we are nothing more than flat mates." They stared at each other for a long while, John's hand frozen in Sherlock's hair, too stunned to move.

Sherlock had never before indicated that he was unsatisfied with their current relationship. They were colleagues, flat mates, best friends, and lovers. They had never talked about what that meant, they had simply allowed it to happen because it felt right. For John, it had never been enough, never would be enough, because he could never get enough of Sherlock. Even if Sherlock was his in every sense of the word he felt that he would still yearn for more. He never imagined that Sherlock could feel similarly.

"Now would be the appropriate time to respond John." Sherlock said dryly. John started at the sound of his voice and wondered briefly how long he'd just been staring. His gaze suddenly intense, he looked deeply into Sherlock's eyes, trying to pour everything he felt directly into the other man's soul.

"I love you." John almost surprised himself with his words. But now that he'd said them, he felt lighter than he had in years. Sherlock's brow furrowed as if he couldn't quite grasp what he'd just heard. John just laughed, why had he been so afraid to say it? He pulled Sherlock into a sitting position and took both of his hands in his own.

"I love you Sherlock Holmes, I think I always have. I was just too blind to see it, and then you were dead and I was fading away, and I wished nothing more than to be able to tell you that I loved you and couldn't live without you. Then you came back and I could breathe again. But I was so afraid that I would lose you if you knew how I felt. You are literally married to your work, you git." John's eyes sparkled with excitement as he rapidly confessed his feelings.

"Naturally you figured me out, and when you didn't reject me, well, I thought that just maybe there was a part of you that could love me, even if it was just a little, it would be enough for me. But it wasn't enough; it isn't enough, because every day I spent with you like this was another day closer to when you would get tired of me. I knew it couldn't last because you're, well, you're you, and I'm me, and how could someone like you want to stay with someone like me?" Sherlock frowned, not quite sure what John meant by all that. He had never seen John so flustered.

"I'm not ashamed to love you Sherlock, I'm just bloody terrified to admit to loving someone who doesn't love me back. And maybe if I never said it, if I pretended that it wasn't true, it wouldn't hurt as badly when it ended, it wouldn't crush me when it all came crashing down.

I suppose that's why I never tell you, or why I try so desperately to hide what we have in front of others. I just never thought it mattered to you. You've never cared what other people think." He squeezed Sherlock's hands tightly and leaned his forehead to rest against the other's.

"I've been a fool." John said quietly. Another heavy silence hung between them. John was prepared for the worst, but he couldn't bring himself to regret his words. The sense of relief that washed through him when he finally let go of everything he'd been hiding was liberating.

"I don't care what other people think." Sherlock said softly. "I only care what you think." John leaned back so he could see Sherlock's eyes. They were open and honest, almost pleading with John to understand the meaning behind those words.

John leaned to rest his head in the crook of Sherlock's neck, breathing in the familiar scent he had grown to associate with comfort, and home. Sherlock stroked John's head, lightly running his fingers down the back of John's neck, earning a contented hum.

"And John?" John raised his eyes to Sherlock's face. The detective was staring straight ahead. "I love you too."


	4. Isn't It Obvious?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit of fluff =]

"Sherlock?"

"Yes John?" Sherlock answered softly. The pair were splayed out on the couch, Sherlock's head on John's chest as the doctor ran his fingers through those dark curls.

"All those months, when you were waiting for me to tell you that I loved you… why didn't you ever tell me how you felt?" John sighed at the younger man's silence.

"You could have just told me you loved me."

"I assumed that taking you to bed repeatedly after that first time made that fact rather obvious." This time it was John who was silent.

"Is that not how a relationship works?" Sherlock questioned.

"Are you saying that you've never slept with the same person more than once?" John asked incredulously.

"Aside from yourself, no." John couldn't help but chuckle in disbelief.

"Is that amusing?" Sherlock deadpanned.

"No, it's just-"John searched for the right words, "a bit odd I suppose. Unexpected."

"Why would I have sexual relations with the same person more than once if I was not interested in being in a relationship with them?" Sherlock asked as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"You've never had a boyfriend? Girlfriend?" John was still unwilling to accept what Sherlock was saying could be true.

"No." John laughed again. Of course Sherlock had never dated anyone, he just wasn't wired like that. John was a special circumstance. Sherlock turned to raise an eyebrow in John's direction.

"Why do you laugh?"

"Because I'm not surprised." John chuckled, his voice full of mirth. The knowledge that he was the only person Sherlock had ever desired body and mind was making him unreasonably giddy.

"How many people have you had sex with Sherlock?" John asked curiously.

"I'm not sure." John stiffened slightly and Sherlock sighed. "I'm an addict John. My habit was not exactly conducive to perfect recall." John remained silent, mulling it over. He wasn't sure how he felt about that, but he knew it would be unreasonable to begrudge Sherlock for his actions while high.

"Four." Sherlock said after a long pause. "While I was sober." John resumed stroking his love's hair while he listened.

"Three men, one woman." John just nodded. "Afterwards I found that I wanted to be as far away from them as possible. When I came back to myself, I wanted nothing more to do with them, so I woke them and kicked them out." Sherlock reached for John's free hand and laced their fingers together.

"That's how I knew you were different. Not only was I nervous and eager to please you, but when it was all over, I didn't want to let you go. I still don't." He squeezed John's hand tightly.

The doctor remained silent. Part of him wanted to gush all sorts of affectionate and sappy things to his love, to let him know that he was different too, that this was real. But the other, bigger part, didn't want to spoil this perfect moment with the sound of his own voice.

He continued to stroke Sherlock's hair as he basked in the amazing feeling Sherlock's words had evoked in him. John couldn't remember ever feeling like this before, and he never wanted it to end.


	5. An Unwanted Invitation

Sherlock was anxious. He didn't do anxious. He had no idea how to deal with it. So he paced nervously around the flat, trying to think of anything but John, and what Sherlock was about to tell him. He knew John would be upset with him, and that bothered him more than he would care to admit.

He was trying to do something that would be good for John, good for them. At least that's what he told himself. When he really thought about it, which he was trying very hard not to do, he knew that his actions were bred out of a need to see what John would do, to test him.

John sighed as he sat down to eat without Sherlock. He hadn't been able to get any food into the detective for two days. His mind was clearly too occupied to be bothered with something as trivial as eating, but John was worried. Worried because Sherlock was human and needed sustenance, but also because Sherlock didn't have a case on. If there was no case, then why was he so agitated?

When Sherlock began pacing quickly about the flat, John had had enough. He squared his shoulders, easily sliding into his title of 'captain'.

"Sherlock." The detective instantly noted the commanding tone of John's voice. He froze, his face flushing slightly as his heart rate increased. He couldn't keep his body from reacting to that voice….

"Come here." John left no room for argument. Sherlock turned slowly and faced the soldier in his kitchen. John sat, back straight, calm gaze burning into Sherlock's. His eyes lacked the warmth Sherlock associated with John, but the cool stare of this captain set Sherlock's skin on fire. Three words, and the tightening in Sherlock's stomach was no longer caused by nerves, but lust.

He struggled to control himself as he made his way to where John sat. An image flashed in his mind of John blindfolding him and tying him to their bed, but he quickly shook his head to dispel the thought before a moan slipped from his lips. Now was not the time, he needed to talk to John. Before he could utter a word John spoke again.

"Sit." Sherlock obediently took his seat. John pushed a plate of spaghetti toward the detective.

"Eat." Sherlock wasn't the least bit hungry. His protests died on his lips when he met John's gaze. The army doctor was exuding dominance and authority, his raised eyebrow daring Sherlock to defy him. He wanted so badly to rise to the challenge, but Sherlock found he just didn't have it in him at the moment. The idea of being obedient was so foreign to Sherlock that it was almost exotic, and most definitely erotic.

He began to eat slowly, keeping his eyes locked on John's. John watched him carefully, never once letting up on his authority over the other man.

"Good." John finally broke his gaze, shifting his attention to his own plate. They ate in silence, Sherlock managing to finish at least half of his pasta. Satisfied with that, John rose, taking both their plates over to the sink. Sherlock watched in silence as John did the dishes, curious as to what his doctor would do next.

Finally, John turned to face him, examining him for a moment before quickly closing the distance between them. John laid his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and leaned over him.

"Close your eyes." It was still a command, but softer than before. Sherlock complied without hesitation. He held his breath until he felt John's lips press against his own, lingering there gently as his hands slid up into Sherlock's curls.

John moved to sit in Sherlock's lap, leaning into the kiss and deepening it. Sherlock responded eagerly, running his tongue along John's bottom lip before delving further. John continued to assert his dominance during the kiss, tightly holding Sherlock's head still as he pressed his hips into the man below him. A moan escaped Sherlock's lips from somewhere deep within his chest, causing John to shudder.

Taking a handful of Sherlock's hair in his fist, John pulled Sherlock's head up, so that he was face to face with the pale skin of Sherlock's neck. He ran biting kisses up and down Sherlock's neck, pausing only to nibble lightly on the detective's earlobe.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong or am I going to have to force it out of you?" John whispered hotly into Sherlock's ear. Sherlock tensed and John sighed.

"Please love, I know there's something bothering you. You can tell me." His plea was met with silence. He placed his hands on either side of Sherlock's face and met his gaze evenly.

"I will beat it out of you if I have to. You can't just keep pacing around all worked up, you'll drive yourself mad, hell, you're driving me mad." Sherlock looked into John's open expression and sighed. So much for having a bit of fun tonight.

"I invited Harry over. She's coming tomorrow. She'll be in town for a few days, I'm putting her up in a hotel several minutes from here." Sherlock studied John's face as he spoke, carefully measuring his reaction.

John was frozen in shock. Images of the last big fight they'd gotten in flooded through his head. It had been a bad one. They had both said some terrible things to each other, but Harry had crossed one too many lines, and John didn't think he could, or wanted to, forgive her.

"Why?" Sherlock could hear the edge of anger seeping into John's voice.

"She's been calling you, trying to get in touch. I know you've been ignoring her, so I called her." John rose and went into the living room. He didn't want to be near Sherlock right now. Sherlock turned to watch him.

"She was surprised to find out I was alive, and probably a bit upset you didn't tell her. Though she did inform me that the last time you spoke did not go well. She wants to apologize." Now it was John's turn to pace.

"She says she's been sober ten months." Sherlock added. John scratched anxiously at the back of his head; his anger towards Harry at what she had said that day was slowly rising back to the surface. He turned toward Sherlock, stalking forward until he was only a foot a way.

"You had no right to invite her here." The words were forced through clenched teeth. "I don't want to talk to her, I don't want to see her, and I most certainly do not want my boyfriend going behind my back and inviting her to my bloody flat!" Sherlock held John's gaze evenly, wincing slightly as his voice rose to nearly a shout. Angry tears burned behind his eyes but he refused to let them fall. John had been deeply hurt by Harry, and instead of dealing with it, he had allowed his anger to smother it within him.

"I want you to call her right now and tell her she is not welcome here." John's voice held the same authority as before, but this time Sherlock took the challenge it presented.

"No." He said simply. John just stared at Sherlock.

"Then I'll call her myself." He said after a long pause. He moved to look for his mobile.

"She will still come." Sherlock stated flatly. John froze to turn back to the detective.

"Then I won't be here." John crossed his arms and stared Sherlock down, once again daring him to speak up. Sherlock remained sitting, but his gaze was deadly.

"Yes you will." Sherlock's tone matched John's. Both men refused to relinquish control to the other. "She's your sister John, you have to face her eventually."

"Like hell I do." John spat before storming out of their flat. Sherlock sighed deeply and moved to the window to watch John walk away. He took out his mobile and quickly sent a text.

Follow him? –SH

Sherlock sat in his chair, hands under his chin, and waited for John to return. Several minutes later his phone alerted him to a text. He read it quickly and pocketed his phone without answering.

Getting drunk at the pub. Will bring him home. –MH

Sherlock closed his eyes. He was sick of John always resorting to alcohol when he didn't want to deal with something. He supposed this time it was his fault, but he was supposed to be the stubborn child in this relationship, and here he was, calmly waiting for John to stop throwing a tantrum so they could speak like adults. Of course, who knew if John would be in a condition to talk once he got home.

John swore under his breath when he noticed the black car following him from the flat. Always the bloody black car. Could he get no peace? He found his way to the nearest pub and threw back his first scotch in one gulp. He knew he was being irresponsible, but he didn't care.

After his fourth he sighed, it would do no good to get completely hammered. He didn't want to have to accept a ride from Mycroft's people because he was too drunk to walk home. With that, he paid for his drinks and strode from the bar, steady on his feet despite the haze of the alcohol.

Nearly two hours after John had left, Sherlock heard the door downstairs open, and the unmistakable sound of John's footsteps trudging slowly up the steps. They sounded fairly even. Not too drunk then. Good.

Sherlock didn't move from his position as John entered the flat, he merely opened his eyes to observe the doctor. He seemed fairly well put together. He swayed slightly on his feet as he removed his jacket but quickly righted himself and walked steadily into the kitchen. He deliberately kept his eyes away from Sherlock.

He opened the fridge, desperate for some sort of distraction. There were three containers on the main shelf; jam, soda water, and beer. John could see through the glass containers that each one held a human finger. He squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. Typical.

He walked into the other room and stood in from of Sherlock, finally meeting his gaze.

"Fingers, Sherlock. In the fridge. Bloody human fingers." Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow at him. John laughed without humor, running a hand over his face. This was too much. He supposed he should be used to it, but he was angry, upset, frustrated, and there were fingers in his jam.

He stared at Sherlock, eyes full of the turmoil he felt.

"I don't want to see her." John's gaze dropped to the floor. Sherlock rose to stand before him, waiting for John to continue.

"You don't understand. We've always had a tumultuous relationship, fighting then forgiving, constantly fighting. But this time, what she said, I don't want to forgive her." Sherlock lifted John's face with a hand under his chin and held it there until the shorter man met his gaze.

"Tell me." Sherlock said softly, moving his hand to cup John's cheek. John closed his eyes and sighed, leaning into the touch. His mind took him back to the day they had fought, here in this flat, right after Sherlock's funeral. As he remembered, he recounted the whole ordeal to the man before him.

When Harry heard of Sherlock's passing, she had put down the bottle and rushed to John's side. Regardless of how tense their relationship was, he was her brother, and she would be there for him. At the funeral she held his hand, and though she had never met the man in the casket, her eyes were wet with tears for the grief that was clear on her brother's face.

She had taken a cab back to the flat with John, unwilling to leave him alone in this state. He was too tired to argue, and allowed her to follow him upstairs. Every time he walked into their flat, just his flat now, it hurt even more. It was a mess, Sherlock's things scattered about, half finished experiments littering the kitchen table, the yellow smiley face still staring back at him, riddled with bullet holes. Everything was a reminder of the man who lived there, the man he had just buried.

John sighed deeply and threw himself onto the couch. He kept his eyes closed against the onslaught of memories that surrounded him. Harry took a seat in Sherlock's chair and John mentally flinched.

"I started looking around for apartments." Harry said casually. "I can stay in town a while and help you move, if you'd like." Apartments? Move? John turned to stare at his sister.

"I'm not moving." He said flatly. His voice sounded hollow, even to his own ears.

"You can't stay here John. This place is practically a shrine for this man." She gestured to the box of nicotine patches that sat on the table next to a neglected cup of tea. John hadn't been able to bring himself to dump it. She pulled Sherlock's silk robe from it's resting place over the back of her chair, holding it in her hands as she gazed around the rest of the flat. John reached over and snatched the robe from her hands, clutching it tightly.

"You'll never be able to move on if you keep yourself surrounded with his things." John closed his eyes tightly, anger welling up in his chest. "You have to get past this, start fresh."

"I just buried him." John whispered through clenched teeth.

"I know." Harry said softly. "But the longer you stay here the harder it will be to leave. The sooner you get out of this dump the better." Harry's eyes were locked on the jar of eyeballs sitting on the kitchen table, her lips turned down in mild disgust.

"It. is not. a dump." John growled. "This is my home." He sat up and glared angrily at his sister.

"This is his home." She shot back. "It's pointless to linger here." John stood up, his face hot with rage. Everything he had been feeling, hurt, frustration, anger, it was all being diverted toward Harry, and John didn't have the energy anymore to hold it back.

"I'm not leaving Baker Street!" He shouted. "I won't run away from him!" Harry was standing now too.

"You didn't have a problem running away from mom." She spit angrily. John froze. He felt as if he had been punched in the gut, the wind knocked from his lungs.

"Get out." John's voice was cold and calculating. Harry simply ignored him.

"You knew how she was, and you still left her with that bastard. You knew what he would do, but you ran away. You just had to go joining the army didn't you John? Had to be a big hero. Well, you may have fooled everyone else, but I know what you really are, a coward." John's hands were clenched tightly into fists, his heart pounding away in his chest.

"You left too." John growled.

"Don't turn this on me, I left her with you. You were supposed to protect her!"

"Exactly! You left me. Who was going to protect me Harry? I had to get out." They were screaming in each other's faces. This fight had been a long time coming.

"She begged you not to go, but you wouldn't listen. That week she called you and begged you to come home but you just ignored her. And now she's dead. Dead John." Tears were streaming down her face.

"Because of me. That's what you want to say isn't it Harry?" Her silence was all the confirmation he needed. "Well you didn't exactly go rushing home after I was gone either." The venom in his voice shocked even him. "Now get the fuck out of my flat."

Harry stared at him a few more moments before storming past him and out the door. It slammed behind her and he listened to her footsteps as she rushed down the stairs. When she was finally gone, John sank to his knees, shuddering sobs raking through his body. His shoulders shook as he collapsed in on himself, unable to contain his grief any longer.

Some part of his mind registered soft footsteps as Mrs. Hudson tentatively entered the flat. She had heard their argument from downstairs and had very nearly intercepted Harry on her way out to give her a piece of her mind. How could his sister accuse him of such things? And on such a day as this? The man had just buried his best friend.

Mrs. Hudson kneeled on the floor next to John, reaching out to place a comforting hand on his shoulder. There were no words she could say to help him, but she figured he shouldn't be alone. John leaned into her as she wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight as he cried.

He cried for his young self, repeatedly abused by his father, deserted by his sister. He cried for his helpless mother, so weak and frail that she hadn't been able to live alone with the monster she married. He cried for her death, for the guilt that had eaten at his soul since the day he walked away. And most of all, he cried for Sherlock. His best friend, the best man he had ever known. He cried for the brilliant mind that had been ripped from this world, for the eccentricities, the snide remarks, and the heart that he had never gotten the chance to love.

It was in that moment, as he sobbed like a little boy in his landlady's arms, that John Watson finally realized, and admitted to himself, that he was in love with Sherlock Holmes. He cried harder as the truth of it hit him like a ton of bricks. His heart was broken beyond repair, and here it was breaking even further. He clung to Mrs. Hudson like she was the only thing keeping him together. In truth, she really was. Everything else was gone. He had lost everything.

Sherlock wiped away the tears that had fallen from John's eyes as he spoke, pulling the shorter man into a tight hug. He had had no idea the can of worms he'd opened by calling John's sister. All he wanted was to see if, faced with Harry, John would be able to admit to his relationship with Sherlock. He didn't realize things between the siblings had gotten so bad.

"Harry's my sister, and I love her. I suppose I can't begrudge her for blaming me for our mum's death. I couldn't stand living with him anymore Sherlock, I just couldn't. So I left her and enlisted. I guess he beat her to a bloody pulp one too many times after I was gone, and she decided she'd rather die than endure it any longer." John shuddered in Sherlock's arms.

"She called me, a few weeks before I moved in with you, and begged me to come home. I told her I couldn't, and three days later she hung herself. Harry's right to hate me for it." Sherlock ran his hand through John's hair, murmuring softly in his ear. At his last words Sherlock pulled away, holding John's face in both his hands and looking deep into his eyes.

"She's not right John. It is not your fault. You understand me? Your mother could have left, but instead she chose to take her life. It was not of your doing. If you need somewhere to place the blame, then put it on your father. If anyone deserves it, it's him." Silent tears continued to fall down John's face, but he blinked them away.

"Harry doesn't hate you. She wants to apologize to you. She was hurting when she said those things, and so were you." He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on John's lips. He tasted salt. John took a deep breath and sighed, closing his eyes and leaning his forehead against Sherlock's.

"You're still not off the hook." Sherlock raised his eyebrow at John questioningly. "You can't just go behind my back and do things like this Sherlock. How am I supposed to trust you?" Sherlock took a step back in surprise.

"I was only trying to help." John sighed, he didn't feel like fighting anymore.

"I know." He stepped back toward Sherlock, unhappy with the distance between them. "Just, don't do it again. Alright?" Sherlock nodded, looking down into the smaller man's eyes.

"I'm sorry." John reached up to stroke Sherlock face. He stood up on his tiptoes so he could lightly meet Sherlock's lips with his own.

"I love you." He said softly. Sherlock sighed and wrapped his arms around John, holding him close.

"I love you too John."


	6. Harry Watson

The sound of their buzzer broke the tense silence that had lingered in their flat all morning. John looked up from the newspaper he hadn't really been reading to lock eyes with Sherlock, seated in his chair in the other room. They listened as Mrs. Hudson went to the door. Her usual warm reception of guests was missing as she indicated to Harry that the boys were upstairs.

John stood, nervously pulling at the hem of his shirt. He didn't know what he was going to say to Harry. He didn't want to fight with her again, but he couldn't imagine either of them being able to truly forgive the other.

When Harry finally knocked on the door to their flat, it was Sherlock who rose to answer it. John lingered by the couch, not sure how he felt about this situation yet.

"Harry." Sherlock said in greeting.

"Sherlock Holmes." Harry grinned. "It's nice to finally meet you. I've heard great things… you know, from the funeral." She cleared her throat awkwardly.

"It's nice to meet you too. Mostly from my brother I would assume?" He offered her one of his small smiles to help ease her discomfort. She nodded at his question.

"And John." They both turned their attention to the neglected army doctor who was still hovering several feet away. He immediately locked eyes with Sherlock.

"You spoke at my funeral?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John had never told him that.

"Yeah." John said simply. He didn't want to talk about the funeral. He never wanted to think about that day again. Sherlock continued to stare at him, but he let the matter drop. Clearly John did not wish to speak of it. No matter, Sherlock could find out from Mycroft exactly what John had said. How interesting.

After several charged and uncomfortable moments, Harry stepped forward, breaking into Sherlock and John's staring contest.

"John." She said softly. Now that she was here, she didn't know what to say. There were so many things she wanted to tell him, to apologize for, but when actually faced with her little brother, her mind went blank. It was difficult to even be in the same room as him.

"Harry." John said finally. He met her eyes briefly before looking away. He could barely even look at her. This was going to be harder than they thought.

"Why don't we sit in the kitchen?" Sherlock suggested to break the silence. "I'll make tea." John stared incredulously at his flat mate as he walked to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Sherlock was acting like a host? And making tea? This never happened.

Believe it or not, Sherlock was actually feeling guilty for having put John in this position. This had not been his intention. In the lingering silence it seemed as though the siblings reconciliation would not work out as he hoped. In an effort the make his army doctor more comfortable he decided to come out of himself. He could be a pleasant host if need be, he had seen John and Mrs. Hudson do it often enough.

Once they were seated at the table, quietly sipping their tea, Harry chanced a look at her brother.

"How've you been?" She asked softly. "I haven't seen you in-"

"Nearly two years." John finished quickly. "I'm good. Better now." He glanced briefly at Sherlock, who was watching the interaction with interest. Harry nodded her understanding, happy that John had been reunited with this man.

"Um, you?" John asked, clearly still uncomfortable.

"Good. Been sober going on eleven months." John just nodded as she continued. "I worked things out with Clara." She added happily. "We're not back together or anything, just friends for now. But it's a start. She's finally starting to forgive me."

"Well you did cheat on her." John muttered under his breath. He shot his sister an apologetic look, regretting his words the moment he spoke them. "That's great Harry, good for you." He added earnestly. "You look good."

"You do too." Harry looked around. "So does the flat, no eyeballs on the counter." She smirked at John.

"Oh don't worry, there's fingers in the fridge." She stared at John's face, waiting for him to say he was joking. Clearly, he was not. After a few moments they both began to laugh, shaking their heads at the ridiculousness of it all.

Sherlock watched them curiously, not quite getting the joke. He wasn't very familiar with the workings of an apology, but he figured laughing was a good sign. When the laughter died down, Harry sighed deeply and became somber once again. Both Watson's seemed to have forgotten Sherlock was there.

"Listen John, I cam here because I want to apologize." John met her gaze evenly. "I shouldn't have said those things. I won't say I didn't mean any of it, because at the time I did." John winced slightly but otherwise remained silent and unmoving.

Sherlock wanted to reach out and take John's hand. He wanted to support and comfort the doctor, and show Harry who's side he was on. But he refrained, knowing that it would not be received well by John.

"I was hurt, angry, and honestly I was hung over and itching for a drink. I know that's no excuse." She added quickly, knowing John would object. "But once I straightened myself out, I realized how wrong I was. Since then I have wished for nothing more than to be able to take those words back, and fix what I ruined between us."

She held John's gaze, eyes pleading with him to understand. He was silent for a long while, not sure what he could say to that. It wasn't enough, it wasn't nearly enough, but he also knew that the blame didn't rest completely on his sister's shoulders.

Before either could say anything more, Sherlock's presence was made know when his phone went off. Both John and his sister turned to Sherlock in surprise, having forgotten he was still there.

"Excuse me." Sherlock muttered, rising to leave the room.

Body found behind the Globe Tavern. I'll hold the scene for you. –GL

Sherlock grabbed his coat, sticking his head back into the kitchen as he slid it on.

"We've got a body John." He said, his eyes alight. "Lestrade says they'll keep the scene intact until we arrive." John looked to Sherlock and then back at Harry, as her gaze shifted back and forth between her brother and the consulting detective.

"You go on ahead." John said, deciding to stay and continue his talk with Harry. Sherlock's face fell slightly but he nodded his understanding, turning to leave.

"Sherlock?" He turned back to John, raising one eyebrow in question.

"Text me yeah?" Sherlock grinned briefly at John's request.

"Of course my dear Watson. You know I'm lost without my blogger." He gave John a wink, and with that he was gone.

John blushed fiercely at the term of endearment, but couldn't help but smile at Sherlock's high spirits. Nothing cheered Sherlock up like a good murder.

"So… You and Sherlock…..?" Harry asked, grinning at the blush on her brother's cheeks.


	7. The Case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we've reached the actual case! Don't worry, there's smut as well ;]

The body is located in the alley behind the Globe Tavern, the same bar that John had been drinking at the day before. This fact does not escape Sherlock's notice, almost nothing does.

The victim is a woman in her mid thirties. She is fair skinned, with medium brown hair slightly longer than shoulder length. Her hair is matted and plastered to her face and neck with sweat and grime. Her clothes are dirty, but nice. In tight black jeans and a low cut blue halter top, she was dressed for a night out. Her neck was deeply bruised, indicating the cause of death.

A few feet away from the body was a pool of vomit, presumably the victims. And on the brick wall behind her head, a message was painted in red. 'DRUNKEN WHORE."

Sherlock snapped several pictures as he examined the scene and sent them to John. He took his time, walking around the body, getting a good look from all angles, while Lestrade watched, arms crossed over his chest. Once he was satisfied he had gleaned all the information he could at the moment, he stood, removing his gloves, and addressed the detective inspector.

"She had been out drinking, by herself. Recently divorced or separated." He indicated a faded tan line on her ring finger. "The message, along with her outfit indicate that she came here looking for a, 'one night stand', I believe is the term. Also, the state of her right thumb can confirm her murderers claim that she was an alcoholic." Lestrade stared incredulously at Sherlock as he spoke. The detective inspector didn't think he would ever get used to the way Sherlock deduced a crime scene, even though he had known the man for years.

"Clearly, she had too much to drink and stumbled out here, only to get sick. Delirious and too intoxicated to put up a fight she was easily overpowered by her assailant, who is a white male, mid to late thirties, six feet tall, and right handed. He's someone very close to her, the message on the wall suggests this was a crime of passion, payback for the affair that ended her marriage, so either her husband, or the man she cheated on him with."

"How in God's name can you tell she's an alcoholic by her right thumb?" Lestrade asked, dumbfounded.

"Really that just confirmed what I had already deduced." Sherlock answered quickly.

"Firstly, she carried no personal items with her when she went out. No purse, no wallet, no mobile. Just loose cash in her pocket. She didn't leave any of those things inside the bar when she left." Sherlock said, anticipating Lestrade's next remark.

"I know this because I called and spoke to the bartender while I was on my way here. He informed me that no personal effects had been left at the bar or reported stolen last night. The killer didn't take her things after she was dead because this was not about robbery, and judging by the message, he would want us to know who she was. Therefore, I can only come to the conclusion that she didn't bring any of these things with her because she was planning on drinking heavily and didn't want to forget them, or be robbed."

"Judging by the odor of her vomit, it seems beer was her drink of choice. The calloused skin on the inside of her right thumb and forefinger indicates repeatedly opening beer bottles over a long course of time. Hence, I can safely say this woman was an alcoholic. Have Molly examine her liver, I'm certain she will find significant damage."

"Incredible." Lestrade couldn't help but be amazed, even though he was loathe to inflate Sherlock's ego even further.

"I know." Sherlock stated simply as he walked away,

"Get me a meeting with her husband." Sherlock called over his shoulder.

"Yeah sure." Lestrade muttered as the other man left. "First I have to figure out who she is." He motioned for his forensic team to take over the scene, and left shortly after in an effort to avoid Anderson. He didn't need to deal with the man's comments about the consulting detective.

Sherlock arrived back at the flat full of energy, and eager to share his deductions with John. As soon as he was through the door he was pulling his coat off and yelling for the doctor.

"Did you get the photographs John?" He called, walking into the flat until he found John still sitting at the kitchen table with his sister. They seemed to be talking amicably before he entered the room.

"It's quite obvious really." Sherlock said as he moved into the room. John rose as he entered, standing to face Sherlock. "Once I speak with the husband I'll be able to confirm-" Sherlock was cut off when John put a hand behind his neck and pulled him down to meet his lips. He was too surprised to do anything but return the kiss, raising an eyebrow at John as he pulled away.

"Who. the. killer. is." Sherlock finished slowly. He shot a glance at Harry, who was grinning down at the table, clearly not surprised.

John was blushing fiercely and smiling shyly at Sherlock, biting his bottom lip as he studied his reaction. Sherlock simply stared for a moment before a huge grin spread across his face. He reached up to gently stroke John's cheek across his blush. John chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his head.

"So who is it?" He cleared his throat. "The killer I mean." John glanced at Harry who smiled her encouragement. He instantly relaxed, feeling giddy and light, and wanting to take Sherlock outside and kiss him in front of anyone who could see.

"Possibly the husband." Sherlock responded. "But most likely the man she was having an affair with." He moved to the other room, grabbing his violin as he plopped into his chair.

"Lestrade is setting up a meeting." He told John before lifting the instrument to his chin and beginning to play. John smiled as he watched him, then turned to retake his seat at the table with Harry.

"Who's he talking to?" Harry questioned after a few minutes of listening to Sherlock play. The deep baritone of his voice could be heard softly mixing with the music of his violin.

"Probably that skull on the mantle." John said simply, turning to gaze for a moment in the direction of his thinking flat mate. Harry once again waited to see if John was joking. He gave her a look that said, 'I'm completely serious.' And she couldn't help but shake her head in disbelief.

"He certainly is an odd one." Harry said, smiling warmly.

"Oh you have no idea." And for the second time that day, they laughed together at the absurdities of that strange man.

Autopsy complete. Victim is Victoria Hansen. –GL

Instead of responding, Sherlock dialed Lestrade's number and waited impatiently as it rang. He heard the click of the phone being answered and spoke before Lestrade had a chance to say hello.

"What can you tell me about her?"

"COD was strangulation, significant liver damage, like you said"

"Yes, yes," Sherlock interrupted, "Tell me something I haven't already told you myself." Lestrade sighed deeply before continuing.

"She's recently divorced, the husband, and her estranged sister are flying in from Liverpool tomorrow. Apparently our victim moved to London several weeks ago after her divorce was finalized. Both her parents are dead, her sister's her only family."

"What about the man she had the affair with? Does her husband know who he is?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"I didn't ask him."

"Of course you didn't think to ask about the identity of the most likely suspect, that would mean actually doing your job."

"Sherlock-" Lestrade interjected angrily.

"Save your excuses Lestrade, you're boring me already. I'll ask him myself tomorrow." And with that he hung up.

"Rude, Sherlock." John called from the kitchen. He and Harry were finishing up the dishes from their dinner.

"He was being an imbecile." Sherlock whined.

"You think everyone's an imbecile." John said. Finished in the kitchen, John moved to walk Harry to the door.

"That's because they are." Sherlock mumbled. "No offense John." He added before rolling over to face the couch and pout. John shook his head, trying not to laugh as he turned to Harry.

"It was good to see you Harry. Thanks for coming."

"Thanks for having me." Harry replied, not sure if she should hug John or not. John made the decision for her, holding out his arms and pulling her into an embrace.

"We'll talk more tomorrow." John told her. Two years left them with a lot to catch up about. They still had a few things to work through, but they were well on their way. John had never been able to stay mad at Harry.

"So I told her…" John said shyly, lifting Sherlock's legs and placing them in his lap as he sat down.

"I gathered as much." He replied, raising an eyebrow and grinning slightly.

"I don't know why I thought it would be so hard. She pretty much assumed we were together so I didn't have to say much, but once I started talking I couldn't stop." John laughed light heartedly. He began to run his hand lightly up and down Sherlock's leg as he spoke.

"I think at one point I listed off all the things I love about you." John chuckled at himself, feeling giddy all over again.

"There's a list?" Sherlock said smugly, grinning that arrogant grin that John loved and hated, well, mostly loved.

"Quite a long one." John agreed casually. Sherlock sat up and leaned into the other man to whisper in his ear.

"Tell me." He said in a low voice. John shivered at the feel of Sherlock's breath in his ear. He was trying to think of an answer, but Sherlock was now running kisses up and down his neck and across his jaw. He couldn't form a coherent thought let alone a whole sentence.

"Your eyes." He said finally. Sherlock rewarded him with a sweep of his tongue. John moaned low in his throat, tilting his head to give Sherlock better access.

"Your hair." He said, running his fingers through the curls. Sherlock hummed in appreciation.

"That crazy brain of yours." He ruffled his hair playfully. Sherlock bit down on a sensitive part of his neck, turning his chuckle into a groan. Sherlock grinned against his neck at the sound.

"The way you play." John said breathlessly. He never admitted it, but he loved to watch and listen to Sherlock play, even when he was woken in the middle of the night to the sound of his violin.

Sherlock moved to meet John's lips with his own, unable to refrain from doing so any longer.

"Your lips." John whispered between kisses. Sherlock deepened the kiss, effectively silencing the man for several minutes. Every time Sherlock kissed him like this, he completely melted. John could go on kissing him forever.

"The way you kiss." He breathed when they finally separated.

"I am rather good at it." Sherlock replied smugly. He leaned in to kiss John again, lightly biting at his lower lip when he pulled away.

"Your insufferable ego." John said sarcastically, pushing Sherlock's chest so he laid back. John let his hands rove up Sherlock's body before leaning over him and kissing him again. Neither man spoke for another several minutes.

"What else?" Sherlock breathed into John's ear, darting his tongue inside before gently blowing on it. John shivered at the sensation and let out a breathy moan.

"The way you stare at something when you're thinking." Sherlock threw his head back as John ground his hips down into him. He pulled the smaller man tightly to him, bucking his hips up in response.

"The way you pace and shout when you're excited." John bent to ravish Sherlock's exposed neck. He bit and sucked eagerly, marking the writhing man below him.

"But mostly your heart." John said softly. He continued to lick at Sherlock's neck. Before John had come along, Sherlock had been convinced that he didn't have a heart. John had shown him he'd been completely wrong.

"John-" Sherlock groaned, his hips involuntarily lifting into John, seeking more contact. John placed a kiss over the angry red mark he had just made, knowing it would be even darker tomorrow.

"I want everyone to see that and know that you are mine." He nearly growled, meeting Sherlock's gaze with a possessive glint in his eyes. "You're mine." He said again, sliding their bodies together.

"Yes John." Sherlock agreed readily, pulling John's head down to kiss him. Sherlock submitted to the kiss quickly, which would have surprised John if he hadn't been so busy aggressively exploring the other's mouth. John held Sherlock's head still, kissing him roughly while he thrust against the body below him.

"Need you." Sherlock was surprised by how desperate he sounded. He couldn't bring himself to care. "Now." He growled out, gritting his teeth as he moaned loudly. John didn't need telling twice and began to hastily undo the buttons of Sherlock's shirt.

He sat up briefly as John pushed the shirt off his shoulders, reaching for the hem of John's jumper, and pulling it, and his undershirt over his head at once, before lying back down and pulling the smaller man on top of him.

John continued to kiss Sherlock as both men rid themselves of their pants. John let out a moan so loud he was sure the whole street heard him when their naked bodies finally came into contact.

"So good." He murmured into Sherlock's neck. They continued to grind against one another while John returned his attention to Sherlock's neck, and Sherlock ran his nails roughly down the army doctor's back.

"Need to get-" John started to say as he began to push himself away from Sherlock. The detective grabbed desperately at John's hips, pulling their bodies back together. He reached under the couch and handed John a small bottle.

"You keep lube under the couch?" John asked incredulously. He opened the bottle to poor some on his fingers before returning his lips to Sherlock's neck.

"There's a compartment underneath." Sherlock answered, more focused on what John's lips were doing to his flesh than what they were saying. "I used it to store drugs."

John froze briefly at the mention of drugs but he didn't let it bother him, and quickly put it out of his mind. Sherlock didn't miss a beat though and was about to curse himself for bringing it up when he felt one of John's fingers enter him.

He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned, his mind going blissfully blank. He pushed his hips down into John's hand as he added another finger, pulling him in deeper.

"More-" He choked out raggedly. "Please John." Sherlock almost never begged. Usually Sherlock took complete control and turned John into a blubbering, pleading mess, until he finally gave him what he wanted. But this was a special occasion and Sherlock needed John now.

The sound of Sherlock's heated plea almost sent John over the edge. Sherlock almost never came undone like this, and John loved it. He quickly applied lube to himself, and then, without warning, pushed all the way into Sherlock in one powerful stroke.

A scream flew from Sherlock's lips at the pleasure and pain of it. John didn't wait for Sherlock to adjust before he pulled nearly completely out and slammed back into him.

Sherlock clung to John for dear life as the army doctor set a fast and brutal pace, thrusting roughly into Sherlock with reckless abandon.

"God yes." John groaned through his teeth. "You're amazing." He began to stroke Sherlock in time with his thrusts, drawing moans from Sherlock that brought John even closer to the edge.

"M'close." He told Sherlock, picking up his pace. "Come with me."

Sherlock's grip on John's hips tightened, his nails digging into the flesh. Before long Sherlock's whole body tensed as he found his release, John's name being dragged from his lips.

Sherlock clamping down around him was all it took to knock John over the edge. He came with a loud shout, buried to the hilt inside Sherlock.

He pulled out gently and laid down to rest his head on Sherlock's chest. He began to trail his fingers up and down the other man's spine as they came down from the high.

"That was amazing." John said after a while. "I have to make you beg more often." He added with a smirk. He tilted his head up to kiss Sherlock's jaw.

"I'd like to see you try." Sherlock shot back, still struggling to return his breathing to normal. "You're the one who's always begging John." He teased arrogantly.

"I didn't have to try very hard this time." John replied, turning his head to kiss up Sherlock's neck to his ear. Sherlock hummed appreciatively.

"Special circumstance." He murmured, moving his hand to the back of John's neck to scratch lightly at his hair.

"I take it you're glad I told Harry about us." John smiled up at Sherlock. The detective pulled John's head up to place a gentle kiss on his lips.

"Very." He agreed. John nuzzled into Sherlock's neck as the taller man wrapped his arms tightly around him.

"I want to go out and tell anyone who will listen." John admitted. "I love you and I want everyone to know. I don't want to hide who I am any longer." He squeezed Sherlock tighter.


	8. Connections

Something in John's words lit a light bulb in Sherlock's head and suddenly he was jumping up from the couch, nearly flinging John to the floor in the process.

"Sherlock!" John complained, startled. Sherlock began to pace throughout the room, muttering rapidly under his breath.

"Sherlock," John repeated. "What is it?" Sherlock continue to pace, waving his hands in the air like he always did when he was piecing something together.

"Sherlock!" John's shout stopped Sherlock in his tracks. "What is going on?" John asked a bit angrily. Sherlock ignored him, instead picking up his mobile and making a call.

"Lestrade." He said, once again speaking before the other man had a chance to answer. "Bring me everything you have on Victoria Hansen so far. I need her entire life story, leave nothing out. Also, the files from the Alan Fortz murder."

"Alright Sherlock." Lestrade said with a sigh. "Alan Fortz? That case is over eight months old, not to mention closed. His killer is already in jail."

"Yes I'm aware of that." Sherlock said irritably. "I am the one who put him there after all. Just bring me the files. Immediately."

"Fine. I'll be there in ten. But then I am going home and I don't want to hear from you again until tomorrow."

"By home you mean the couch of the friend you've been staying with correct? You're wife still is sleeping with the PE teacher, is she not?." Lestrade hung up without answering.

Sherlock began pacing once more, rapidly connecting dots in his head. John sat and waited patiently for Sherlock to remember he was there. When it seemed that would not happen any time soon he cleared his throat expectantly.

Sherlock stopped his pacing and turned to meet John's gaze. He had one eyebrow quirked up as he regarded the army doctor curiously.

"Alan Fortz?" John prompted his silent flat mate. "That's the gay fellow who was-"

"Outed by his killer yes." Sherlock finished quickly. "How could I not have seen it sooner. Stupid." He was talking to himself more than to John and soon began pacing once more. John just watched him, sighing as he waited for Sherlock to explain.

"This woman, Victoria Hansen, was outed by her killer as well, just not in the same way. The circumstances of her death reveal the true nature of her character, as did the death of Alan Fortz. These two murders are connected John, I just don't know how yet." With that he stopped and stared at the silent doctor.

"And it all leads back… to you."

His gaze was intense and unblinking. John shook his head, struggling to follow the other man.

"How do you figure?" He asked.

"Think John. A closeted man murdered by his homophobic brother because of his secret relationship with the man he lived with. Who does that remind you of?" John's brow furrowed in confusion as he listened. Sherlock continued, growing more and more agitated.

"And now, a recently divorced, alcoholic adulterer with an estranged sibling. Coincidence? I think not." He continued to pace.

"But why? And who? The brother had motive, and so does the boyfriend, but they don't know each other, they don't know you. So how? You're the only connection John. There must be something else, something I'm missing."

John had been shaking his head in disbelief the entire time Sherlock rambled. This wasn't about him. He had nothing to do with these people.

"Sherlock, you can't seriously believe these murders are about me?" Sherlock turned to face him again, taking a few steps forward.

"You're secretly in a romantic relationship with the man you live with, and you have an estranged sister, who just happens to be an alcoholic who was divorced because she had an affair. I don't believe in coincidences John."

"I need to go through everything again, every single detail. Lestrade should be here any minute with the case files." Sherlock was pacing again, his mind whirring like the well-oiled machine it was.

"You might want to put some clothes on then." John pointed out, tossing the naked man his pants. Sherlock looked down at himself as if just now remembering that he was stark nude. He nodded his thanks and slid them on as John dressed.

"I need to speak with the husband, and the boyfriend. I'll pay Alan's brother a visit in prison as well. There must be a connection, and I'm going to find it."

John rose and stood in front of Sherlock, halting his pacing. He put his hands on the taller man's shoulders, lightly caressing his neck with both thumbs. He held Sherlock's gaze, hoping to pour some calm into the other man.

"That all has to wait until morning Sherlock. So for now can you please just relax? I'll make you a strong cuppa to drink while you read through the files."

"Someone is signaling you out John, and I've only just figured it out eight months later. I think I've relaxed quite enough." His gaze was hard and full of something John couldn't place.

"You don't know that for sure." John was still unwilling to jump to the conclusion that these murders were somehow tied to his life. There were probably dozens of people in London who's lives could be related in some way to these killings.

"Don't I?" Sherlock snapped angrily. He strode to the window and flung aside the curtains, gazing out in search of the inspector.

"What's taking him so long?!" Sherlock yelled. He was becoming increasingly more agitated. His mind was in a rapid whir of processing facts and making conclusions, and he did not like where the implications of them were headed. John was in trouble, but he had no idea who from or why. Nothing set his nerves on edge more.


	9. Moriarty

"I don't know what you're looking for in these, but here you go." Lestrade handed Sherlock the files and turned to leave, knowing he wouldn't get a thank you or even an acknowledgement from the other man. To tell the truth, he was still upset with Sherlock over the comment about his wife's affair.

Sherlock threw the files onto the table and immediately began to go through them. He read every word and examined every picture, taking in and cataloguing every minute detail and fact.

John placed a steaming cup of tea beside Sherlock, who ignored it for several minutes before taking a large sip. Even then his eyes never left the files. John plopped himself down on the couch to watch some telly, while also keeping an eye on Sherlock. The man was hardly even blinking. Sherlock would be at this all night, that much was obvious.

John sighed heavily as he rose to go to bed. He hated sleeping alone, but he would never try and force Sherlock away from a case. He shuffled sleepily into the kitchen to make Sherlock some fresh tea. When that was done, he replaced the old cup with a steaming new one, and leaned down to press a gentle kiss to the top of Sherlock's head.

"Goodnight." John mumbled into Sherlock's hair. He let his hand run along Sherlock's back as he began to walk away.

"Mmm." Was the only response he got. When Sherlock was engrossed in figuring something out, almost nothing could get through to him. John wondered briefly as he crawled into bed what it would take to get the man's attention. He even doubted he would get a reaction if he got to his knees and started to suck him off, right there in the kitchen while he read. John chuckled at the image and slowly drifted off to sleep.

Sherlock was still seated at the kitchen table when John came down the next morning. However, he was no longer engrossed with reading the files. Instead he was leaning back, eyes closed, face tilted up toward the ceiling, hands pointed toward his chin.

John knew better than to think he was sleeping. Sherlock never slept when there was an unsolved puzzle lingering in his brain; a fact that frequently worried John. He moved into the kitchen without a word and made some tea and toast. He placed one cup in front of Sherlock, along with a jam covered piece of toast, and sat down across from him, praying that the other man would at least take a few bites.

"Moriarty." Sherlock said after several minutes had gone by. John froze with his toast halfway to his mouth. Sherlock had not moved from his position in the slightest.

"It's him John." Finally Sherlock opened his eyes to look at the man sitting across from him.

"It is the only possible explanation." Sherlock continued through John's silence. "Who else in the world feels so strongly about us to create such an elaborate scheme? Better yet, who has the resources? It can only be Moriarty."

"But why?" John asked. "Why this? We don't even know these people. And besides, Moriarty is after you Sherlock, not me. If it were him, wouldn't you be the focus of his plot?'

"But that is precisely the point. Moriarty is no fool John, and I suppose in a way he understands me better than most. Targeting me, threatening me, that would only excite me more and he knows that. But you John? That's an entirely different thing."

John listened with furrowed brows, not quite following the detective's line of thought. Sherlock met John's eyes with one of those piercing gazes that left him frozen in place.

"I will burn the heart out of you." Sherlock quoted slowly, drawing John back to that day at the pool where Carl Powers had died. "I think he's begun to do just that."

John stared into Sherlock's eyes for a long time.

He supposed he should be afraid, but he couldn't bring himself to worry about Moriarty at that moment. All he could feel was the warmth that spread through him when he understood Sherlock's words. Moriarty said he would burn the heart out of him, and Sherlock deduced that meant the madman would go after John, because John is his heart.

Before John could get a hold of himself, a tear escaped the corner of his eye and left a watery track down his cheek. And suddenly Sherlock was there, kneeling in front of him and reaching up to softly wipe the tear from his face.

"John?" He questioned cautiously. Sherlock, being who he is, was completely at a loss for how to deal with such a show of emotion. He was unsure what to do or say to make his doctor feel better. He didn't understand why John was crying, certainly not because he was afraid?

John gave Sherlock a watery smile, leaning into the hand on his cheek. Of course Sherlock would be extremely confused and uncomfortable in this situation. He was out of his element after all. John was almost embarrassed to admit that his tears were happy ones.

"I'm fine." John said with a blush. "I just love you. So much." He pulled Sherlock's hand from his face and held it tightly with his own.

Sherlock frowned a little, still confused. This must be one of those sentimental moments he never quite understood; especially under these circumstances.

"I love you too John." Sherlock answered honestly. He gazed at the army doctor warily, as if he were afraid John would burst into tears.

"I'm not going to cry." John laughed and pulled Sherlock up into his lap. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's thin frame and pressed their foreheads together, enjoying the closeness. He tilted his head slightly to gently meet Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock returned the kiss without thought, moving his hand to run lightly through the other man's hair. John hummed happily at the touch. He loved when Sherlock played with his hair, he even grew it out just because he knew Sherlock liked it that way. He pulled the taller man tighter to him, running his tongue across his bottom lip.

Sherlock opened his mouth, inviting John to deepen the kiss. He responded without hesitation, moaning into the kiss as he pressed their bodies even closer together. The man was a phenomenal kisser. John couldn't get enough. He ran his nails down Sherlock's bare back.

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat and he groaned at the feel of John's nails on his back. God, he loved that. There was something important he was supposed to be thinking about... John bit down on Sherlock's bottom lip and he lost his train of thought, gripping the doctor's hair tighter and pulling slightly.

Eventually John pulled away from the kiss breathing heavily. "Sherlock" He said breathlessly. As Sherlock's heart rate returned to normal, his brain clicked back into full gear. Oh right... Moriarty.

He wrapped his arms around John in a tight hug, keeping their foreheads pressed together. He needed to protect John, keep him safe at all costs. A year ago he would have been surprised with the strength of his feelings, but not anymore. He had long since accepted that John meant everything to him.

"What are we going to do?" John whispered softly.

"Burn him first."

 

Moriarty. Keep John safe. –SH

After a while Sherlock had removed himself from John's lap and dressed in a fresh shirt and pants. Before leaving the flat to meet with Victoria Hansen's ex-husband, he sent his brother a text. He received a response almost immediately.

Already looking into it. Surveillance has been increased considerably. –MH

There was a black car waiting for him outside.

It didn't take more than a few seconds for Sherlock to come to the conclusion that the ex-husband was not the killer. The man was clearly a passive sort and mourned his ex-wife even though he had kicked her out. His eyes and mannerisms screamed of guilt, but it was the innocent sort of guilt, the guilt of a man who saw this death as his fault because he hadn't tried harder to keep his wife sober.

Sherlock spent less than ten minutes with the husband before quickly taking his leave. He entered the black car waiting to take him to his next destination, the imprisoned murderer of Alan Fortz.

On the way, Sherlock sent a text to his brother informing him of the identity of Victoria Hansen's boyfriend and murderer. He received a reply several minutes later.

He'll be with me by morning. –MH

Get me a name. –SH


	10. Sebastian Moran

Tony Fortz was surprised to receive a visit from a Mr. Sherlock Holmes. The man was essentially responsible for putting him in prison, but he hadn't expected to see him again once the case was closed. He actually hadn't seen him since the day he confessed to him and the detective inspector in his living room.

"Why did you kill your brother?" Sherlock asked immediately upon entering the room.

"You know why." Tony attempted to sound harsh despite his confusion at the sudden question. Sherlock nodded and ignored the empty chair across the table from the inmate.

"You are a member of the Sons of Thunder are you not?" Sherlock had noted the group's tattoo when he had initially been investigating this case. It was nothing more than a simple black lightning bolt, running down the side of Tony's neck.

"What of it?" He asked irritably.

"The Sons of Thunder is a gay hate organization," Sherlock explained, "I would assume it had more than a little to do with your brother's murder." When Tony was silent, he continued.

"What happened Tony? Did they find out your brother was gay and have you kill him?"

"They didn't know about him. And they didn't tell me to do nothing, I knew what had to be done all on my own." Tony replied angrily. Sherlock watched as Tony's expression gradually grew somber.

"I knew Al didn't approve of the Sons, but I didn't think it was cause he was one of them." He grimaced in disgust.

"Then Moran tells me he saw Al with that fag he lived with, and then I knew he wasn't my brother anymore." Sherlock stayed silent as Tony continued.

"If the Sons knew I had one in the family…" He let the sentence hang unfinished. "Moran said if I took care of it he wouldn't mention it to anyone."

"You killed him so the others wouldn't think you were gay." Sherlock said simply.

"I'm no fag!" Tony yelled. Sherlock just stared at him.

"Who's Moran?" He asked finally. Tony stubbornly kept his mouth shut.

"I'll just go asking around for him. Sons of Thunder meet in the basement of St. Mark's right?" Tony visibly tensed, but Sherlock continued calm as ever.

"I'm sure they'd love to hear what you've been getting up to with your cellmate."

"I'm not getting up to shit!" Tony exploded. Sherlock smiled coolly.

"They don't know that." Tony glared daggers at Sherlock.

"He's a Son alright?" He admitted. Sherlock raised an eyebrow for him to elaborate. Sighing Tony went on,

"He had only just joined a few weeks back, but he fit right in. He was the quiet, intense type. Like you knew he meant business. Said we were on a mission to purify the human race."

"First name?" Tony grumbled under his breath for a moment before answering.

"Sebastian." Sherlock nodded once, then turned and left without another word.

He dialed his brother as he climbed into the car waiting for him.

"Sebastian Moran. Find him."

"Who is he?" Mycroft asked, already somewhat aware of the answer. His people were beginning the search as he spoke.

"A gay hate radical, member of the Sons of Thunder. He put the idea in Tony's head to kill Alan." Mycroft nodded as Sherlock spoke, he was currently watching the prison footage of Sherlock's interview.

"And Mycroft?"

"Yes Sherlock?"

"I want to talk to him first." Mycroft agreed and ended the call. He sighed deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose. He wouldn't be home for dinner again, or possibly even at all. He still had the Korean dignitary to deal with, checking in with several of his men overseas, there was work to be done on his projects in the Middle East, and now he had to review the interrogation footage of the Hansen woman's murderer.

Just then his assistant, Anthea she chose to go by, brought in a steaming cup of tea. She set it in front of her boss with a gentle smile. He smiled back and lifted the cup to his lips.

The hot liquid burned a glorious trail down his throat. Cream, sugar, and a heavy dose of scotch, perfect for a night like this. He reminded himself to give her a raise.

"Lovely." He thanked her. She smiled again and left him to his work.

Mycroft sipped at his tea as he kept his eyes locked on his computer screen. One of his men was in the process of questioning Victoria Hansen's murderer, and luckily for them, the man wasn't opposed to talking.

"I wasn't about to turn down that kind of money, and besides, I don't mind getting my hands dirty." This man was clearly not ashamed of his crimes.

"Look, all I know is I was supposed to sleep with this brawd until her husband found out, and when he did, I get rid of her according to his instructions."

"The message?" Mycroft's agent asked.

"His idea. Everything was his idea. He promised me I would never be caught. Said you would arrest the husband. Yeah right. Bastard." The man grumbled.

"Who?" The man lifted his eyes to the camera, sending a wicked smile in Mycroft's direction.

"Moriarty."

Mycroft was about to send his younger brother a text when Anthea entered his office and laid a manilla envelope in front of him. He nodded his thanks and hit send before starting in on the files.

 

"Yes?" Sherlock answered his phone brusquely.

"Sherlock," Lestrade responded. "What can you tell me about the case? Anything new?" Sherlock huffed a sigh of annoyance.

"Ask Mycroft, you're at his place aren't you?"

"He's not home-how did you-?" Lestrade stumbled over his admission angrily.

"Oh please." Sherlock chided before promptly hanging up. His phone beeped almost immediately after.

Moriarty arranged Hansen's affair and murder. –MH

Sherlock was sitting in his chair. He nodded as the text confirmed what he already knew. This was all Moriarty's doing. But what was his end game?

Waiting for Mycroft to get back to him about Moran was driving Sherlock insane. He liked to solve his own problems, and he was loathe to rely on Mycroft for anything. Especially when there was nothing he could do now but sit and think and wait.

Sherlock growled and threw his phone across the room. He began pacing, frustrated that he was becoming so easily frustrated. Normally a puzzle like this would thrill him, but with this threat looming over John's head, Sherlock couldn't calm down enough to enjoy the game.

"Sherlock?" John's question came from the kitchen. Sherlock ignored him and continued to pace. John entered the room, leaning on the doorframe and watching Sherlock with a concerned expression.

"What is he playing at?!" Sherlock nearly yelled. "Why these strangers? Why doesn't he just come after us already?"

John didn't know what to say. He had no idea what Moriarty was up to, and no way of finding out. So he stayed silent, and calmly held Sherlock's gaze.

 

Colonel Sebastian Moran. American. Ex Special Forces. Former Navy Seal. Honorably discharged two years ago after twelve years of service. Quite decorated. Mycroft's eyes slid down the page and came to rest on the man's picture. He froze, eyes wide, and dialed his brother without a second thought.

Sherlock and John were still staring at each other after Sherlock's outburst, when the detective's mobile began to ring from its place on the floor. John was surprised the thing was still functioning. When Sherlock didn't move, John sighed and went to answer the phone himself.

"John?" Mycroft answered. "Put Sherlock on. It's important." John walked slowly over to where Sherlock was standing and held out the phone. Sherlock's gaze didn't leave John's until the phone was at his ear and Mycroft had begun to speak.

Sherlock turned his back to John, but he could tell it wasn't good news by the way Sherlock's whole body became still.

"And you're just figuring this out now?" Sherlock's voice was low and deadly. John braced himself for the explosion that was sure to come.

"What good are your people if they can't even spot a fake ID!" John reached out to comfort Sherlock, but held back knowing he would lash out. John could just barely make out Mycroft's muffled voice through the phone, as Sherlock began hastily pulling on his coat. He grabbed John's off the hook and threw it to him.

"Where?" He asked tersely, hanging up as soon as he received an answer.

John followed Sherlock without question, outside and into the black car waiting to pick them up.

"Apparently, Victoria Hansen's killer 'Thomas Jones', is actually Colonel Sebastian Moran, Ex Special Forces, also supposed member of the Sons of Thunder, and the man who convinced Tony to kill Alan.

"Because of the blatant incompetence of Mycroft's people, Moran has already been interrogated under the guise of Thomas and sent to a holding cell. How they went through that entire process without realizing the man was a fraud is beyond me."

John reached over and gave Sherlock's hand a reassuring squeeze. The stress of this case was getting to him, and John knew that what little comfort he could provide was not nearly enough. Sherlock sighed and leaned into John. He was still unable to relax, but being close to John helped calm his temper.

"Mycroft was already on his way. He should be there by now." John nodded and placed a kiss on Sherlock's knuckles.

"You think he's one of Moriarty's men?"

"He told Mycroft's men that Moriarty paid him to murder Victoria, but that could have just been part of the lie. He could be part of the web, or he could just be a hired thug."

And then they were there, and John was practically running to keep up with Sherlock as he rushed ahead. There was commotion everywhere. An ambulance, several fire trucks and the whole police department seemed to be outside of the station.

Sherlock ripped right through the caution tape as he hurried inside. He spotted Myrcroft and Lestrade right outside the hallway that lead to the holding cells. Firemen were coming in and out. The whole place smelled like smoke.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked in a huff. John caught up, eyes wide as he looked around, just as Lestrade began to answer.

"There was an explosion in the holding cells. Only guy we had was the one Mycroft just sent over. He's in pieces." Sherlock nearly screamed in anger. He stormed into the cell area to survey the scene. EMTs were gathering the remains on a gurney and preparing to take them away. He swore under his breath and headed back over to John.

"There goes our only lead." He growled in exasperation, shoving his hands in his pockets. He really needed a cigarette. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Lestrade and Mycroft several feet away, talking quietly to each other. Lestrade started to reach out but quickly thought better of it. The movement didn't go unnoticed by either Holmes.

"Gregory please," Mycroft chided lightly, "I have to go back to work." Lestrade sighed and nodded.

"Yeah, I should probably stay here and get this sorted; start working on who the bomber is." He said dejectedly. He was already tired of Mycroft's work schedule. The man was never around, and more often than not, Greg was left to sleep in an empty bed.

"Don't waste your time, Gregory." Sherlock added snidely. "This was Moriarty. Maybe not directly, but this was his doing." Lestrade and Mycroft both turned to look at Sherlock, unaware that he had been listening to them. John took Sherlock's hand and held it tightly, desperate to calm him down before he started throwing punches.

"Is there anything we can do?" He asked, looking between the detective inspector and the British government.

"I'm already looking into it." Mycroft answered calmly. John felt Sherlock tense beside him.

"Try not to screw up again." He hissed at his brother.

"Sherlock-" Mycroft started to argue but John interrupted him. He knew what the Holmes brothers got like when they fought, and it was not pretty.

"We'll just wait to hear from you then." John said quickly as he pulled Sherlock away.

"This is just perfect." Sherlock growled. "Am I the only one that can do anything right? They can't even keep one prisoner from being blown up." Sherlock was ranting at this point.

"He probably just walked right in and planted the bomb. It's not like any of them would have noticed."

Out on the street, John turned to face Sherlock, holding his coat tightly so he couldn't move away.

"Hey" he said softly, waiting for Sherlock to look at him. When he had his attention he continued,

"We'll figure it out. You're smarter than him Sherlock. He can't hide forever. He won't win."


	11. I Need You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Out on the street, John turned to face Sherlock, holding his coat tightly so he couldn't move away.
> 
> "Hey" he said softly, waiting for Sherlock to look at him. When he had his attention he continued,
> 
> "We'll figure it out. You're smarter than him Sherlock. He can't hide forever. He won't win."

Sherlock's anger seeped out of him at John's words. His complete faith in Sherlock was shining in his eyes, and ringing with the conviction in his voice. Sherlock should have been the one comforting John, but he'd been too busy being a selfish prick to pay his partner any attention lately. He sighed deeply and pulled John into a tight hug, clutching him to his chest as he let out a shaky breath.

John watched the anger drain out of Sherlock's face and be replaced with a kind of desperation. He wrapped his arms tightly around Sherlock as he was pulled into an embrace, placing a kiss on Sherlock's chest before turning and laying his ear over his steady heartbeat.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock whispered into John's hair. John pulled back just enough to look Sherlock in the eye, frowning in confusion.

"I-I've been so caught up in my own frustrations and obsession with Moriarty that I never stop to think about how all this is effecting you." Sherlock was quickly becoming agitated again, despite the soothing circles John was tracing on his back.

"You've been so steady and I just- I should be the one reassuring you John, and here I am acting like a child, again. I don't know why you put up with me."

John reached up to run a hand through Sherlock's hair, standing on his tiptoes to place a soft kiss on Sherlock's lips.

"Because you need me." He whispered against Sherlock's mouth before kissing him again.

"And I need you."

 

Sherlock had been in a constant state of frustrated desperation ever since the bombing in the police station two days ago. Moran was their only lead, with him gone, Sherlock found himself quite stuck. He did not like it. He was not used to being outmatched. He was the smartest person he'd ever met, why then, could he not see what was coming next? When would Moriarty give up the game and go straight for John? Would Sherlock be able to protect him? The uncertainty was eating him alive.

John sat at his desk, sipping his tea and reviewing some paperwork from the surgery. God knows how he managed to maintain a job, considering he lived with a high strung mad man. He grinned briefly, but that whisper of a smile quickly turned to a frown as he watched Sherlock pace about, clearly agitated. He'd been like this for days and John was starting to wonder if he'd ever run out of steam. He hadn't slept in days, and John was sure he hadn't eaten anything other than the toast John forced down his throat this morning. Something had to give, and soon. He sighed and attempted to return his attention to the work in front of him, but he couldn't stop his eyes from drifting over to watch as the detective worried a path into the floor.

Sherlock was at his wit's end. Why was nothing happening? There was a significant amount of time between Alan's murder and Victoria's, but Sherlock figured that now Moriarty could assume Sherlock was onto him, things would progress a bit faster. Not that Sherlock wanted to see another person lose their life, or, he shuddered at the thought, for something to happen to John, but with no new information Sherlock was utterly at a loss. And that never happened. He had feared since the beginning that his feelings for John would get in the way of his work, and now it seemed, at long last, his fear was beginning to come true. His brain was muddled in a way it had never been because he was consumed with the urgency of the situation, and the desperate need to keep John safe. Moriarty was exactly where he wanted to be, under Sherlock's skin.

Sherlock heard John sigh, and looked over to catch a brief glance of John's worried eyes on him. Watching John, sit and drink his tea like it was just another day, struck something in Sherlock. He felt a sudden need to ground himself, to reassure himself that this was real, that John was here, and that Sherlock wasn't floating away. Sometimes he got lost in his own mind. Before, he never cared. But now, he didn't want John to wait through days of him not speaking, not eating, not responding in any way because Sherlock couldn't keep himself in the present. Mostly, he didn't want to miss even a minute with John, he was selfish that way. He cursed every moment John spent outside 221B. But John was home now, drinking his tea like he didn't have a care in the world, and Sherlock felt a desperation he couldn't quite understand. He wanted John to be like this every day, needed him to be in fact. He needed John to sit at his desk or in his chair and sip his tea and wear his jumpers and just be John, every day.

John noticed that Sherlock's pacing had stopped, and he looked up to find the detective staring at him with an indefinable expression on his face. Something was not right. They locked eyes for a moment and something in Sherlock's gaze cracked. He looked scared. Sherlock Holmes was never scared.

"John." He couldn't bring himself to say anything else. Just John. It would always be just John.

John got to his feet and slowly approached the detective, his eyes questioning. Sherlock didn't move, or make any attempt to explain his odd behavior. He just stared.

"Sherlock?" John raised a tentative hand to Sherlock's face, hoping to get through to the man. Sherlock remained still for an immeasurable amount of time before he closed his eyes and deflated, bringing a hand up to hold John's to his face.

"What do you need?" John asked softly, running his thumb soothing across Sherlock's cheek. He could see that Sherlock was quickly falling out of his depth, and as always, he was there to provide whatever help he could.

"Make love to me?" It was barely a whisper. John sucked in a breath at the vulnerability that was clear in his voice, and especially his eyes. They were such a shocking shade of blue. It took John back to that wretched pool, to the moment Sherlock locked eyes with him, and the hurt and betrayal there had broken his heart. He looked so vulnerable in that moment, just as he did now. John shook the memory away and leaned up to press a chaste kiss to Sherlock's lips. He lingered there to whisper,

"Of course." before lacing Sherlock's fingers in his own and leading him to their bedroom.


	12. Distractions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Make love to me?"
> 
> "Of course"

John stopped right next to their bed and turned to face Sherlock. Locking eyes, he slowly began to undress the detective, one button at a time. Sherlock shuddered under the gentle brush of John's fingers against his skin. When he was done, he undressed himself equally slowly, while Sherlock stood there and stared. John loved when he had Sherlock's attention like this, when he was the only thing Sherlock saw.

He pushed Sherlock gently onto the bed and slid into place on top of him, humming in contentment. He laced his fingers in Sherlock's hair and looked into his eyes, trying to communicate everything he felt for this man in that one look. Sherlock melted under his gaze, sighing when John finally leant down and met his lips. The kiss was slow and deep. John poured his passion into Sherlock, and Sherlock was overwhelmed. But he gave his all right back. He let his desperation seep into the kiss, his fear of losing John, his need to keep him safe.

John gasped at the emotion coming from the other man and groaned as Sherlock's lips moved across his jaw and down to his neck. God, Sherlock was amazing.

"Hmm." Sherlock hummed against John's neck. "John." His voice was low and rough and it sent a shiver down John's spine.

"Touch me." John didn't need to be told twice. He slid his hand from Sherlock's hair, and let his nails slide down Sherlock's neck and chest, circling his nipple before rubbing it between his fingers until Sherlock was gasping underneath him. John's hand continued its journey downward until he had Sherlock in his hand, hard and throbbing. He stroked him slowly, watching Sherlock's face intently, cataloging everything. The way Sherlock's head was thrown back against the pillows, his eyes shut, his mouth slightly open as he let out beautiful little breathless gasps. John drank it in. Until it became too much and he found himself reaching for the lube and then sliding his fingers into Sherlock, suddenly desperate to be inside this man. He needed to reassure Sherlock, but he also needed to reassure himself. He was afraid of Moriarty, despite the brave face he put on for Sherlock. He was paranoid every time he left the flat, constantly looking over his shoulder, searching for the mad man that wanted him dead, or worse. Right now, John needed to ground himself in something real, something safe. He slid into Sherlock in one long smooth motion.

When John entered him, Sherlock felt his body come alive. Every nerve was on high alert, trying to absorb as much feeling as possible. Moriarty was completely thrust from his mind and replaced with John, there was nothing but John, and Sherlock was so grateful for that. He lost himself in the sensation of the slow roll of John's hips, of the feeling of John inside him. He wrapped his arms tightly around the army doctor, and pulled him in for a long passionate kiss.

They moved together for an eternity, meeting each other's thrusts in perfect harmony. They clung tightly to each other, reassuring, comforting, loving, and they refused to let go. Sherlock's orgasm hit him gradually, sliding over him like a rising tide until he was completely submerged in warmth and pleasure and John. He clenched around John, causing the doctor to groan obscenely into his neck. He could tell John was close so he just held on tight while John thrust into him, relishing in the feeling, until John's movements became erratic and he was coming with Sherlock's name on his lips.

Cleaning up the mess with the sheet, John fell to Sherlock's side and wrapped his body around the taller man. Sherlock turned into John, burying his face in the doctor's neck and tangling their legs together. He wanted to stay like this forever, but as he came down from the high, Moriarty and all his frustration slowly began to seep back into his mind. John sensed the change immediately and knew Sherlock would be up and pacing in less than a minute if he didn't do something about it.

"Sherlock." John whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

"Hm?"

"You haven't slept in days. Please try and get some rest." Sherlock tensed as if to pull away, but John just held on tighter. "There's no new information, nothing's happening, I'm sure a few hours sleep won't get in the way." Sherlock was not sold.

"You've been working yourself into a frenzy ever since this began, you're driving yourself crazy and you're wearing a path in the floor from all your pacing. I've never seen you like this before, please Sherlock. Just give yourself a break. You can give it a fresh think in the morning once your rested and clear headed. I wouldn't be surprised if your subconscious solved the thing in your sleep." John gave a little chuckle at that, but Sherlock remained passive. John was stroking his hand up and down Sherlock's back gently and his body was slowly relaxing. John was so close to winning he could almost taste it.

"I'll stay right here the whole time, by your side. I promise." Sherlock looked up and met John's gaze. He didn't want to let the man out of his sight, but he supposed if he stayed in his arms while his eyes were closed that was good enough, right? He nodded slowly and laid his head back down, snuggling impossibly closer. John smiled and placed a kiss in his hair.

"I love you Sherlock." He breathed gently.

Sherlock sighed happily, and finally allowed himself to drift off to sleep.

After several blissful hours of peace, John was groggily aware that Sherlock was beginning to stir beside him. Sherlock was suddenly alert and out of bed before John even had a chance to open his eyes.

"Sherlock relax. You just woke up." John groaned as he sat up, gesturing for Sherlock to come back to bed. He wasn't surprised that Sherlock made no move to join him.

"Yes John, I just woke up. I shouldn't have been sleeping in the first place, but no, you just had to have your way and now I've lost four valuable hours." Sherlock huffed angrily as he threw on his dressing gown and stormed from the room. John gaped at his flatmate, and soon, he could feel red-hot anger bubbling up inside him. He got up and followed Sherlock in nothing but his pants.

"Somebody has to make sure you take care of yourself cause you're sure as hell not qualified to do it." John said hotly. "Excuse me for actually caring about your well-being."

"I don't need to be coddled John." Sherlock flung himself down on the sofa. "I was just fine on my own before you showed up."

"Showed up and what Sherlock? Ruined everything?"

"Distracted me." John didn't know whether he was more angry, or hurt.

"Is that what I am? A distraction?" John's voice was getting louder and louder. Sherlock remained silent. "Making love last night was a distraction?! Because you weren't begging for it or anything."

"I wasn't in my right state of mind!" Sherlock snapped a little too sharply. John sucked in a breath.

"And if you were you wouldn't want anything to do with me, is that it?" Sherlock didn't answer. "Well this distraction is getting the fuck out of here. Have fun by yourself Sherlock."

John went back to their room and threw on some clothes before grabbing his wallet and mobile and storming out of 221B. He almost expected Sherlock to try and stop him, but of course he was much too proud for that. He remained on the sofa, immobile as John made a display of leaving. Sherlock knew that John didn't deserve to be treated this way, knew that his words were cruel and untrue. But he couldn't seem to stop himself. His frustration was seeping out onto the only person that could take it. Perhaps John had finally had enough.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and pushed the thought away. John couldn't leave him, he wouldn't allow it.

Watch him. –SH

Have another domestic did we? –MH

Sod off Mycroft. –SH

Sherlock struggled to push John and their fight out of his mind so he could think. Sighing in frustration he began lining his arms with nicotine patches, desperate for the clarity the might provide. John was gone and he couldn't think. His mind was a whir of conflicting thoughts and emotions; he was drowning in a sea of them, and desperately needed relief. He stuck a patch to his neck. What he really wanted was cocaine, he could feel the familiar itch in his bones. One thought of John had him pushing that itch to the back of his mind. He didn't want to disappoint him yet again. So he added another patch. He settled down into his thinking pose and breathed deeply. He was going to have a break through if it killed him. There must be something he was missing, and he was going to figure it out right now. He slapped on another patch for good measure.

It wasn't long before John spotted the black car tailing him. He didn't even have the energy to be pissed off about it. As soon as he left the flat all his anger drained out of him and he was left feeling worthless, and more hurt than he wanted to admit. He knew in his heart that Sherlock's words were spoken out of frustration, but he wasn't confident enough not to doubt that they had been rooted in truth. He knew that Sherlock needed him, that he loved him, but Sherlock wasn't like anyone he had ever met. Maybe Sherlock really did resent him for opening up a part of him he had worked so hard to lock away. Maybe Sherlock really did see him as a distraction. Maybe he wished they had never met.

John shook his head to dislodge his thoughts. He was being ridiculous. Sherlock loved him. Without a doubt. But that didn't mean he wasn't a prick. John knew that Sherlock said things sometimes purposely because he knew they would sting. He always chose the words that would cut the deepest. And John was always left feeling angry, and desperate, and empty.


	13. Nicotine

John was about an hour into is sullen walk when he got a text from Lestrade.

Come to the station right away. –Greg

John sighed and thought about texting Sherlock to see if he was going, but of course he was. Lestrade probably sent them the same message. He turned about and climbed into the black car that had been trailing him since he left the flat, and asked to be taken to Scotland Yard.

He arrived to find Lestrade in his office, looking worn out, but Sherlock was no where in sight. John was waiting to hear the sound of the detectives dramatic arrival, but it didn't come. He knocked softly on Lestrade's door. The man looked up quickly and gestured for John to enter.

"A young boy was dropped off in front of the yard today." John raised an eyebrow. And?

"He has a dislocated shoulder, three broken fingers, and some serious bruising on his face and shoulders. He's at the hospital now being looked over, but before he left he said that his dad did that to him." Greg shook his head in disgust and ran a hand over his face.

"He had this in his hand when he got here." Lestrade handed John a folded sheet of paper. On the outside, in immaculate script, it said, John Watson. John looked at Lestrade in confusion, he just gestured for John to open it.

Remind you of someone? -M

Lestrade handed John a picture of the little boy. He was about nine years old, his pale skin mottled with bruises. His face was passive and his hazel eyes were vacant, half covered by his shaggy dirty blonde hair. John could have been looking at a picture of himself twenty five years ago. He wanted to throw up and punch something at the same time. He recognized the look on that boys face; he had seen it in the mirror many times. When his dad beat on him, John distanced himself. He removed his mind from his body until the pain no longer registered, until he was no longer John Watson, or even a little boy, he was just an object that could withstand his father's aggression. John closed his eyes and tried to gather himself before he looked at the DI.

"Where's the father?" John's voice was tight and controlled. Lestrade was a bit taken aback by the malice in John's voice, but he figured it was warranted considering the circumstances.

"Dunno. We can't figure out who this kid is. He hasn't said anything since they first found him and he said his dad did it." John looked back at the picture, grimacing at the boy's wounds. If he got a hold of the bastard that did this before the police, he would make that man regret every mark he left on his son's body.

"Where's Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, surprised to see one man without the other.

"I'm not his keeper you know." John snapped. Then sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "Sorry Greg, long day." Lestrade nods his understanding. He can't imagine what it must be like to live with the genius, Greg wanted to punch him almost every time he opened his mouth.

"Did you text him too?" John asked. Lestrade nodded.

"Same message." He looked as his watch. "Normally gets here within fifteen minutes depending on whether or not he's home. He's five minutes late." John frowned. He knew Sherlock was starving for new information and would've have raced here as soon as he got the message. He thought about calling to make sure he was all right, but he was still upset with Sherlock and he didn't want to be the first one to call. Still, if something was wrong… Before he had time to consider it further, his phone rang.

"Sherlock? Where are you? We're waiting at the station." It was silent for a moment.

"John." Sherlock's voiced croaked through the phone, weaker than John had ever heard it.

"Sherlock?! What's wrong? Where are you?" He was answered with shallow breaths and a long groan.

"Baker street." He breathed, followed by the sounds of being violently ill.

"Sherlock!" John was starting to panic a little, his anger a distant memory. He motioned to Greg to follow him and ran out the door.

"Sherlock we're coming. Just hold on okay? Stay on the line." They hopped into Greg's car and sped down the street, sirens blaring. John's leg bounced impatiently as he strained to listen to every breath coming through the phone.

"John." His voice was much too soft.

"I'm here Sherlock, it'll be okay." A shaky breath.

"You're not a-" groan, "distraction." John sighed.

"Don't try to apologize-" Sherlock interrupted him.

"And if you are…. You're a welcome one." John sighed and didn't say anything, he had already forgiven him.

"Sherlock, what happened?" His question was met with silence.

"Sherlock?"

….

"John?"

"What's wrong?"

"I can't see right." He took a shuddering breath and then moaned. "It hurts to breathe."

"Just hold on Sherlock, I'm almost there." John urged Greg to drive faster, something was very, very wrong with his flatmate.

When they pulled up to Baker Street, John jumped out of the car before it stopped moving and burst through the door, bounding up the stairs and into their flat. His heart was threatening to beat out of his chest it was racing so fast.

"Sherlock?" John yelled to the empty living area. He heard movement coming from the bathroom and raced over, falling to his knees beside Sherlock's limp form. He was clad only in briefs, shivering in a cold sweat and clutching his stomach. His breaths were ragged and choppy, and when John reached out to touch him his skin was on fire. Immediately upon seeing him, John knew what the problem was. Almost every inch of Sherlock's exposed skin was covered with a nicotine patch. His arms were lined on both sides, his chest and stomach a messy collage a patches. He groaned with frustration at Sherlock's complete inability at taking care of himself, for a genius he could be so stupid.

John wiped a sweaty curl from Sherlock's forehead and leaned down to press a kiss to his brow. He cupped his face gently, just to reassure himself that he was there.

"Shhh." He whispered when Sherlock whimpered. "I'm here." He heard Lestrade come in behind him but didn't let go of Sherlock's face, he didn't care how it looked.

"We need to get these off." He told Lestrade. "But call for an ambulance first." Lestrade nodded and stepped out to call. John turned back to Sherlock and quickly began pulling off the patches. They left angry red circles on Sherlock's skin, but that was the least of his worries. He wondered how long the nicotine had been in his system. If he could get through the first four hours his prognosis was good, if not, well, John couldn't think about that right now. He focused on removing all the patches as quickly as possible, and whispering reassurances to his love while he shivered on the floor.

Lestrade entered the bathroom and silently knelt down to help John remove the patches. He could see something in John's eyes, in the way his hands skirted over Sherlock's body, in the way he whispered softly to the suffering man. Greg saw something there, but he remained silent. Now was not the time.

What felt like hours later, but was really only a few minutes, the paramedics arrived and John found himself in the back of an ambulance, en route to Bart's. Sherlock hated hospitals. He reminded John as much by the death grip he had encircled around John's wrist as they rushed through the doors. Too soon, John's arm was being pulled from Sherlock's grip as the doctors took him somewhere John wasn't allowed to follow. Despite being a doctor himself, John would have to wait in the waiting room like everyone else. Lestrade joined him within minutes, having followed the ambulance in the squad car. The wait was short, soon they were informed that Sherlock's airway was clear and that he just needed an IV for fluids and activated charcoal to trap the toxins. John sighed with relief at the good news, and followed the doctor to Sherlock's bedside.

Seeing Sherlock in a hospital was never easy for John. In their line of work, injury was inevitable, but they only ended up in the hospital in the most extreme circumstances. John was a doctor you know, and Sherlock adamantly refused to be treated by anyone else. But this time, Sherlock wasn't in this bed because of a criminal, he was here because of himself, and somehow that made John feel like it was his fault. He was supposed to take care of Sherlock, it was obvious the man couldn't take care of himself. But this was different somehow. Did Sherlock do this on purpose? Because John had left? Had Sherlock thought John was gone for good? He couldn't have, John would never leave him, Sherlock knew that. He had to know that.

John shook his head and pulled a chair over to Sherlock's bed, sitting and taking one of his pale hands. He looked too thin in this bed, too pale and breakable. John hated it. When John touched him, Sherlock groaned slightly as he slowly opened his eyes and turned to look at John. He squeezed John's hand lightly.

"John." He sighed and closed his eyes again, relieved to be with his doctor. Lestrade stood slightly behind John, taking in the scene silently. At this point he stepped forward and clapped a hand on John's shoulder.

"I'm glad you're okay Sherlock." He said earnestly. Sherlock said nothing, but he did nod in acknowledgement of Greg's words, which is more than he would have done for anyone else. He turned to John and said more quietly,

"I called Mycroft, he'll be here soon." Sherlock grumbled angrily at that, but the other two men ignored him. "I'm going to go check on the boy." John nodded, he had almost forgotten about that whole mess in lieu of the mess with Sherlock. That little boy was in this hospital, John made a mental note to go see him soon. Lestrade left then and John and Sherlock were left alone. John carded his fingers gently through Sherlock's hair, Sherlock sighed and leaned into the touch.

"What were you thinking?" John whispered, keeping up the light touch of his fingers.

"I didn't do this on purpose John." Sherlock answered. "I just, needed to think. You know the patches help me, but they weren't. I couldn't focus, couldn't see any connections, couldn't make sense of anything. I just needed something. I figured nicotine was better than cocaine. I may have been wrong about that."

John stiffened at the mention of Sherlock's drug use.

"Moriarty," Sherlock continued. "I let him get to me. It won't happen again."

"The sooner you rest enough to get better, the sooner you can go back to catching him." John told him. "And catch him you will." He smirked and pressed a light kiss to Sherlock's lips.

"I do hope I'm not interrupting anything." Mycroft's voice came from the door to Sherlock's room. Being a Holmes, he always got a room to himself, this room to be exact.

"You've been doing it all my life, please, don't stop now." Sherlock replied sarcastically. John just rolled his eyes and tried not to blush. He knew that Mycroft had probably figured out about them a long time ago, but that didn't mean he wanted him to see him kissing his little brother. John was rather shy after all.

"Glad to see you're feeling better brother." Mycroft said with one of those politician smiles plastered on his face. John wondered when the last time Mycroft had smiled a genuine smile was.

"Yes I'm quite well Mycroft. Obligatory sibling visit fulfilled. Feel free to leave,"

"Well enough to do something as careless as overdose on nicotine patches it seems. Really Sherlock, I thought we had gotten past this." Sherlock moved to sit up but John's hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"This was not in an effort to get high. Simply a miscalculation. Now please, do us a favor and go irritate someone else."

"You forget who you call when you need a favor dear brother." Mycroft said sweetly. Sherlock opened his mouth to make some retort, but John covered it with his hand before he could make a sound. It would be no use to lose Mycroft as an asset now.

"Thank you, Mycroft." John said sincerely. "For everything." Mycroft inclined his head politely.

"Any news on Moriarty?" John asked.

"Unfortunately no."

"I assume you heard about the boy?" John glanced at Sherlock who was no doubt following this conversation with interest. He appeared to be sleeping. Prat.

"Yes, I was informed. My people are currently looking into the boy's identity. We should have the father in custody some time tonight."

John opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by Mycroft's raised hand.

"You'll be the first man I call." John nodded his thanks. He had long since given up at wondering whether the Holmes men could actually read his mind.

With that, Mycroft inclined his head, and left the doctor alone with his stubborn detective. Charade over, Sherlock tried to sit up, eyes studying John with curiosity, and a bit of frustration. He hated when Mycroft knew something he didn't, and he especially hated that John seemed to know something too and hadn't told him.

"Relax Sherlock." John scolded as he helped the lanky man sit up. "I only just found out about this right before you called. I'm sorry I didn't think to update you on the case while you were practically dying in my arms." Sherlock tried not to roll his eyes and pout like a petulant child, tried being the operative word. He turned his head to stare out the window, as if he were barely interested in what John had to say. John knew better however, and could tell the detective was buzzing with tension.

"A young boy was dropped off at the yard today, beaten up pretty badly. Says his dad did it to him, but wouldn't say anything else, not even his name. He gave this to Lestrade before they took him to the hospital." John handed Sherlock the note.

Sherlock took the note and examined it with scrutiny. His eyes narrowed when he read what was written inside. His stomach curled at the thought of a young John, the helpless victim of an abusive father. He hated Moriarty for knowing this, and hated him even more for using it now. He took a few breaths to calm himself, before turning to look at John.

"You should go talk to him." Because you went through what he's going through, was left unsaid. John knew it was there. Maybe this boy would talk to him, because John could relate to him in a way that police officers and doctors couldn't. He nodded grimly, squeezed Sherlock's hand and stood to leave. He turned back after a few steps and caught the detective's eyes.

"Sherlock," John hesitated slightly before continuing. "You do know I would never leave you, right?" Sherlock saw the guilt and uncertainty in John's eyes. John always managed to blame himself for Sherlock's mistakes.

"It's not your fault John." Sherlock reassured him. For a moment, John was surprised that Sherlock knew exactly what he was thinking, but then he remembered that this was Sherlock Holmes, and that he shouldn't really be surprised by anything he does or knows at this point.

He nodded slightly and offered Sherlock a small smile before leaving the room. As he headed for the little boys hospital room, he couldn't help but feel anxious. It was as if he were facing his own demons all over again. He couldn't help but see himself in this little boy, and that forced him to relive all the trauma he had worked so hard to bury. He took a deep breath before entering the room, stealing himself for what he was about to see, but when he laid his eyes on the small broken child in the too big hospital bed, John froze.


	14. Demons

"Open the door you miserable piece of shit!" His father's voice roared through the door of his locked bedroom door. His sister, Harry, stood behind him, trembling with fear. She always ran to John when her dad was like this. They could hear their mother sobbing in the other room, she was too weak to fight her husband's wrath.

"Let." POUND. "Me." POUND. "In." POUND. The door rattled under the strength of the drunken man's fist.

"God help me, I'll break this fucking door down!" John was starting to worry he would be able to. Still, he couldn't let his dad get to Harry. She couldn't take it like he could. He had to protect her, no matter what.

"Go hide in the closet Harry." John whispered, ushering his sister into his closet and closing the door. "Don't come out."

John walked back to his door, tuning out his father's shouts until they were nothing more than white noise to the background of his beating heart. As long as he could hear that, the steady thud of his heart beating away in his chest, then everything would be okay. He was alive.

He took several deep breaths, trying to calm the fear that was bubbling just under the surface of his courage. He raised a shaking hand to the handle, twisted, and opened the door to face his father.

 

John gripped the door frame to steady himself as he tried to shake off the flashback. PTSD didn't just haunt him with the war. He looked over at the boy on the bed, willing himself to stay in the present. Blue eyes were staring at him. John wondered what he must look like to this boy.

"Hi mate." John said with a smile. "My name's John." The boy scrunched his eyebrows and tilted his head to the side.

"Yeah, I'm that John. The one from the note you brought with you." The boy nodded his understanding. "Do you remember who gave you that note?" The boy shook his head quickly, then winced as the movement jarred his injuries. He whimpered softly at the pain in his head.

"Shh." John soothed. "Easy there." He wanted to reach out and lay a reassuring hand on this boy's shoulder, but he knew from experience that that would be anything but reassuring. Raising your hand to an abused child only incited fear and anxiety. Especially with a boy as ill at ease as this one. He fidgeted slightly in the bed, and his eyes kept flicking to the door. He seemed nervous, like he was just waiting for someone to appear.

"Your dad's not going to show up here." John said. The boys eyes widened in response. He didn't look convinced.

"If he does, I'll make sure he never crosses that threshold." The boy looked at John dubiously.

"You don't think I can take him?" John asked playfully. "I'm a soldier." He told him, pulling his dog tags out of his shirt and showing them to the child. "And I'm stronger than I look." That elicited a small smile from the young boy and John felt something tighten in his chest.

"You know, sometimes I wish my dad would show up at my doorstep. Just so I could give him a taste of his own medicine." The boy looked at him with confusion. "I want him to feel every bruise he ever left on me and my sister. Every broken wrist, every fractured rib, all of it." John paused to make sure the boy understood what he was saying, his eyes were wide.

"It took me a long time to finally get away from him. I waited until I was old enough to join the military, because I was always too afraid to tell anyone what he was doing to me. You're very brave for coming to the police."

"He made me come." A small voice spoke for the first time. The boy looked surprised that he had spoken, and quickly clamped his mouth shut.

"Who made you?" John asked softly. The boy refused to answer.

"Your dad?" That got him a reluctant nod. John furrowed his brow in confusion. Why would an abusive father send his child to Scotland Yard riddled with injuries he had inflicted? The message was clearly from Moriarty, perhaps he paid the father to send his son in.

"How about we play a game?" John asked. The boy looked at him with wary interest. "I'm going to try and guess your name, and if I get it right you have to tell me." The boy smiled smugly and nodded.

"What? You don't think I can get it?" He shook his head. "Alright then. Challenge accepted."

"Peter?" No.

"Mike?" No.

"Paul?" Nope.

"Joe? Brian? Patrick? Steven?" Negative.

"It must be a strange name then, if you're so sure I'm not going to get it." The boy just smirked at John.

"Emmanuel?" No.

"Jebediah?" The boy shook his head and scrunched up his nose. "You don't like that one?" John teased

"Okay, okay. How about…. Alejandro?" Another smile and shake of his head.

"Morpheus? Rasputin? Atticus?" A giggle escaped the boys lips and John smiled warmly at him.

"Not even close huh?" The boy shook his head, still smiling.

"Carlton? Anderson? Gregory? Mycroft? John? Henry? James? Wesley? Harry? Hamish? Hudson?" The boy froze, then nodded his head enthusiastically.

"Which one? Wesley?" No. "Harry? Hudson?" Still no. "Hamish?" The boy nodded again and smiled.

"Looks like I won." John smiled back. "Hello Hamish." The boy stretched out a hand, John took it and shook gently.

"That's my middle name you know; Hamish. John Hamish Watson." The boy looked dubious.

"You don't believe me?" John took his ID from his pocket and handed it over. "See? John Hamish Watson. ID's don't lie little man." The boy scoffed.

"What?"

"I'm not little." Hamish said with a pout. John smiled, warmth filling his chest.

"How old are you then?" John asked.

"Nine." Hamish held his chin up in an effort to look older. "But I'm mature for my age."

"I reckon you're right about that." John conceded. "No little kids here then."

"You hungry Hamish? I'm craving some chocolate from the vending machine, I can get you some. I know the food here's rubbish." Hamish nodded happily. "I'll be right back." John promised.

When he returned from the vending machine, Hamish was fast asleep in his bed. Poor kid was probably exhausted. John quietly set a chocolate bar on his nightstand and moved to leave. He'd come back to talk after Hamish got some much needed rest. He turned to look at the sleeping boy just before he left, sighing at the sight before him. No child should have to go through what this boy is going through. John knew this would stay with Hamish the rest of his life, haunt him, even when he was an adult and he thought he had gotten past it. John wished more than anything that he could erase this from this boy's life. Get rid of all the pain and suffering and replace it with love and affection. He wanted to go back and fill his life with the things that a child should have; family, friends, skinned knees, trees to climb, bikes to ride too fast, and trouble to get into. He just hoped it wasn't too late for Hamish. He could still have those things, if he was lucky. John sighed and headed back to Sherlock's room, his mind full of what he learned about Hamish, and all the things he still had to find out.


	15. Tension

Three days after the nicotine fiasco, as John was referring to it in his mind, he found himself in a cab with Sherlock, finally on the way home from the hospital. Sherlock had been an absolute nuisance the entirety of his hospital stay; John was truly surprised they hadn't thrown him out sooner. He was fairly certain the nurses drew sticks to see who would have to enter Sherlock's room, that's how unpleasant he was. John wondered how he put up with it, but one glance at Sherlock and he knew he loved this infuriating man, faults and all. He took Sherlock's hand and squeezed it gently.

During their stay at the hospital, John had split his time between Sherlock and Hamish. He sat with the little boy when he was being questioned by the police, or the doctors, and stayed with him at night until he fell asleep. He wasn't able to find much out about Hamish and what had happened to him, but he did get the feeling that his dad was involved in some pretty bad stuff. Based on what John told him, Sherlock came to the conclusion that Hamish's father must be a part of Moriarty's vast crime network. That seemed to make the most sense. That also accounted for Mycroft's inability to bring the father in. Moriarty was an expert at making people disappear.

Sherlock suspected that the father was already dead. Moriarty wouldn't risk leaving any lose ends. Sebastian Moran had already done the job of making sure Sherlock knew exactly who was targeting John, Moriarty couldn't afford to let any other information loose. And so, they once again found themselves at a dead end, waiting on Mycroft to provide further information.

As soon as they got into the flat, Sherlock threw himself on the couch and began to pout. John could tell it was going to be a long night.

"Bored." Sherlock grumbled to the couch cushion.

"What was that Sherlock?" John called from the kitchen. He was starving and desperately trying to find something edible.

"Bored John! I'm bored!" John sighed at the lack of food in the fridge and cupboards, and at the petulance of his flat mate. He went into the living room and stood in front of Sherlock until the detective's curiosity won out and he turned to see what John was doing.

"I need to go get some food Sherlock. If you're feeling up to it you can come with me, or you can sit here and pout until I come back." Sherlock crossed his arms and glared up at John, who reached down to run his hands through Sherlock's curls with a sigh.

"Fine. Just, don't shoot any holes in the wall while I'm gone okay?" Sherlock grumbled something like 'deserved it' and John couldn't help but grin. He leaned down and pressed his lips to Sherlock's lightly. John moved to stand up, but the detective had other plans. He reached one hand up to grab John's neck, and the other snaked around his waist and pulled hard. John gave an undignified yelp as he suddenly found himself sprawled atop a certain consulting detective. Sherlock took immediate advantage of John's surprise and dove in for a bruising kiss.

John returned the kiss enthusiastically, opening up and letting Sherlock devour him. John was already half hard. Not much time to get off when your partner's in a hospital bed, and John was definitely feeling the loss of Sherlock the past four days. Hunger forgotten, John sank his fingers into Sherlock's hair and kissed for all he was worth. When the need for air became too much he pulled away gasping, Sherlock's lips immediately latching on to his neck. John moaned wantonly as Sherlock's tongue did things that should be downright illegal. Arousal coursed through his veins like fire, consuming him so quickly it would have worried him had he not been so turned on. He nearly lost his mind with need when Sherlock grabbed his arse and pulled his hips down to grind against Sherlock. The rough friction against his aching erection was perfect, but it wasn't nearly enough.

John growled and dipped his head to capture Sherlock's lips once again, continuing to roll his hips into the man below him. His hands found their way under Sherlock's shirt to grip hot skin. He dragged his nails down Sherlock's sides, eliciting a low groan from the younger man. Scratches always drove Sherlock wild.

"John." Sherlock breathed as John's lips made their way down his neck, sucking bruises into the skin as he went.

"John." He said again, a little stronger. John looked up at Sherlock with lust blown eyes.

"Yes Sherlock?" John continued to pepper Sherlock's neck with kisses.

"Aren't you going to get food?" John shook his head, dragging his teeth down Sherlock's neck.

"Food can wait." He spoke against Sherlock's skin.

"I'm hungry John." John looked up and met Sherlock's very serious expression with his very startled one.

"You can't be serious." John said incredulously.

"Why wouldn't I be serious?" Sherlock said innocently. John stared at him a moment before letting out a rough laugh. He let his head fall to Sherlock's shoulder and struggled to control his body's impulses.

"You really are a bastard Sherlock." John groaned, frustrated at the painful tightness in his gut that was screaming for release. Sherlock said nothing, he just slowly slid his hands from John's arse, grinning smugly at the way John's body reacted to the touch.

"Up you go John." Sherlock said brightly, giving John a light smack. John groaned again and slowly sat up to glower down at him.

"You're going to pay for this you know." He threatened. Sherlock just smirked.

"I'm looking forward to it Dr. Watson." They stared at each other for a few moments before Sherlock shoved John to his feet. John grumbled under his breath as he slipped his coat on and headed out the door. Just as he was leaving he heard Sherlock shout,

"Bring me some of that chocolate cake I like!" John paused, intending to tell Sherlock that he could bloody well get his own sodding cake, when he realized it would be pointless. He knew he would get Sherlock whatever he wanted. That was the downside of being in love with a spoiled child in a man's body. He sighed heavily and headed out to hail a cab.

 

"Myc, please just come to bed." Lestrade sighed at the sight before him. Mycroft was hunched over his desk, head in hands, desperately searching his mind for some sort of lead. He hadn't had a proper night's sleep since this whole Moriarty thing began. Impending wars, entire economies in danger of collapsing, and the elder Holmes slept like a baby. But any threat to his little brother, and the man drove himself mad trying to fix it.

Greg moved to stand behind his lover, placing his hands on his shoulders and attempting to massage some of the tension out of them. Mycroft noticeably relaxed under Greg's touch, which brought a small smile to Greg's face.

"Gregory." Mycroft breathed his name like a plea. What he was begging for, Greg had no idea. He just squeezed his shoulders a little tighter. Mycroft sighed and turned to meet Greg's gaze.

"Why can't I find him?" His face seemed calm and passive, but Greg knew him well enough to see the turmoil that roiled just under the surface. His eyes portrayed his emotions better than any words could, and Greg knew those eyes better than anything.

"The father or Moriarty?" Greg questioned softly. Mycroft dropped his head back into his hands.

"Both." He rubbed his eyes tiredly. "How is this man so elusive that even I cannot find him? Where can a man hide where I cannot see him?" He shook his head, frustrated.

"Sherlock-" He began, shaking his head and starting over. "If something happens to John, Sherlock will not be able to take it." He raised scared eyes to meet Greg's worried ones. "I cannot allow that to happen."

"You won't." Lestrade reassured him. "I know you won't." He reached a hand out to gently cup Mycroft's face, who leaned into the touch with a sigh.

"Your brother is an impossible man to take care of, especially since he's dead set against it. But you've managed to keep him safe this long, a feat I'm sure no one else would be capable of. You've tackled much bigger fish than this Moriarty bloke, don't let a few road blocks make you lose faith. You will find him Myc. And when you do, he'll regret ever putting himself on the wrong side of the Holmes brothers."

"You have such faith in me." Mycroft whispered. "How?"

"You've given me a million reasons to believe in you." Greg pressed a kiss to Mycroft's forehead. "And not a single one to doubt you." He whispered against his skin.

"Please come to bed. I don't want to sleep alone again." He leaned down and gently met Mycroft's lips with his own. Mycroft breathed him in, leaning into the kiss and letting it linger.

"I will." He promised. "I just need a few more minutes." Greg sighed in defeat. Mycroft's few minutes would quickly turn into hours. "I need to do this." Mycroft's eyes were begging Greg to understand.

"I know." And he did. He kissed Mycroft one more time before moving to leave. He would let Mycroft do whatever he had to, even if it meant sleeping alone. Just as he reached the door Mycroft called out his name. He paused and turned to face Mycroft again.

"I love you." He told him earnestly. Greg smiled gently, warmth filling his chest.

"I love you too Myc."


	16. Advantage

John came to in a haze. His head hurt like hell, his shoulder was beyond stiff, and he struggled to blink away his blurry vision.

"What-?" He groaned softly. And then he remembered.

He had just managed to hail a cab, but when he went to climb in, someone was already in the backseat. He tried to apologize and back away, and suddenly there was someone behind him, and a needle was being pressed into his neck. He was unconscious within seconds.

Now, he found himself in what seemed to be an abandoned warehouse. His arms were tied behind his back, and his legs tied to the chair he was sitting in. He took a moment to assess his situation. …. Yep, he was royally screwed.

He sent Sherlock a silent prayer to find him fast because he really had to use the loo. Also, he was in pretty good shape right now and he didn't really fancy a beating in the near future. Footsteps distracted him from his thoughts, and he immediately transitioned into soldier mode.

A man appeared from behind an old crate, his face remained in shadow. John had a pretty good idea who it was though, and the moment he heard his voice, his suspicions were confirmed.

"So good to see you again Dr. Watson." Moriarty purred as he stepped into John's field of vision. "Glad you could make it."

"Not to be rude," John answered casually. "But I'd really rather not be here."

"Eager to return home are we? Pity. We could have such fun you and I. Of course, you do have quite a pretty one waiting for you back in Baker Street. Am I keeping you from a wild night?"

"Jealous?" John challenged. Moriarty let out a crazed cackle that sent chills down John's spine. This guy was seriously creepy.

"I can see why he likes you. I too enjoy a pet with a bit of spunk." Moriarty stepped closer to John, close enough to touch, and walked a slow circle around him.

"So hard to see a good pet suffer, especially one you're very fond of. And my Sherlock is quite fond of you dear Watson. Such a shame he'll have to watch you die." Moriarty's face was the picture of sadness and regret. John bristled at the use of the possessive pronoun; Sherlock belonged to no one. If there was anyone in the world that could say my Sherlock, it was John. Only John.

"And to know it was all his fault. The loss might just destroy him." John's blood boiled in his veins. Red hot anger overpowering the icy tendrils of fear that had crawled their way up his spine. If he had to die, then he had to die. But he had chosen this life, he had chosen Sherlock, and he would make damn sure Sherlock knew it, and believed it, before he was gone. Make no mistakes though, John was not resigning himself to his fate. He would fight like hell to come out of this, he would fight for all he was worth to stay alive. And when he made it out of there, he would make this man pay, and he would enjoy doing it.

It didn't take Sherlock long to realize something was not right. Even if John had struggled hailing a cab, and been met with heavy traffic, he would have been home by now. Sherlock's texts had all been ignored, even the genuine ones, and John never ignored Sherlock when he was being genuine. Sherlock's worry was setting in full force.

He called Mycroft as soon as he suspected foul play, and as much disdain as he felt towards his brother, he knew that in this, Mycroft would do everything he could. He trusted him that much at least.

Sherlock had already run outside to check the streets for any evidence of John's whereabouts. By this point, he had deduced that John must have been kidnapped. If Moriarty wanted to torture him, this would be the way to do it. Killing John quickly wouldn't be good enough, the pain would be too swift, too absolute, and over too fast. Moriarty would want Sherlock to suffer more than that. He would want to watch Sherlock become more and more desperate, watch the hope drain from him slowly. He would want to watch Sherlock as he lost John before his very eyes.

John would be tortured. The thought made Sherlock sick to his stomach. He could feel the fear and panic gathering at his center, threatening to explode. But he pushed those feelings aside. He would need the full power of his mind for this problem, and he intended to use it.

Lestrade arrived at Baker Street shortly after Sherlock informed Mycroft of the situation. He found Sherlock pacing the floor, just as he had expected.

"What do you need?" Lestrade knew Sherlock had no patience for sentiment, and got straight down to business. Even a hello would be asking Sherlock for too much right now.

"CCTV footage of Baker Street from the past four hours. Make that twenty four actually, someone could have been keeping watch." Lestrade nodded and got on the phone.

"I tried to track his mobile, but it's turned off. They might still have it with them though, presumably for when they're ready to call me and gloat about their kidnapping." Sherlock rambled on as if he was talking to himself, but Greg knew him well enough by now that Sherlock thought better when he was thinking out loud to someone else. So Greg listened.

"Why now? Why not while I was still in the hospital? He wants to make sure I'm in full form, so he can beat me at my best. Doesn't want me to have any excuses. Yes, that's how I would do it. And right in front of the flat, it must have been there. Snatched from right under my nose, just to prove he could." Sherlock's ramble drifted off into unidentifiable grumbles as he paced about the flat. Lestrade gave up listening and texted Donovan to hurry things along at the station. They needed that footage, and anything else they could find ASAP. John Watson was their number one priority. He wondered what Mycroft had found out so far, if he already had video footage of the kidnapping, but decided against calling him. Mycroft would call when he had something important, otherwise they would stick to their agreement to investigate as they would separately. Different methods could turn up different results. Greg suspected it might also have something to do with the fact that everything Mycroft did was highly classified, and he couldn't let Greg be a part of any of it. That was just fine with Lestrade, definitely not his division.

"Get your laptop Sherlock, Donovan just sent over the footage." And that's how Lestrade found himself spending the night in 221B Baker Street. Sitting with Sherlock and pouring over footage of the street. They looked for anyone who hung around a little too long, looked a little too interested, anyone who could have been watching, and waiting for Sherlock and John to return home. Sherlock's eyes didn't miss a thing. Greg knew Sherlock was seeing more than he ever could, but he hoped that his presence could provide some sort of help, even if his eyes could not.

By morning they had watched John being injected from behind and dragged into a cab dozens upon dozens of times, trying to discern every little detail that could be found. Lestrade could tell how much of a toll this was taking on Sherlock. He could see it in the hard set of his jaw, the tenseness of his shoulders, and the way his eyes were utterly focused on the screen in front of him, but seemed to want to look away at the same time. The first time they had seen John being taken, Lestrade had pretended not to notice Sherlock's sharp intake of breath.

It was that morning, when Sherlock received a call. His caller ID read JOHN. He locked eyes with Lestrade as he answered the phone.

"Hello?"

"Sherlock! It's lovely to hear your voice again." Moriarty's singsong speech came through loud and clear. Even Lestrade could hear him. "This is where it gets a bit awkward I'm afraid. You see, I have your little pet here, and I'm sorry to say I haven't been very nice to him. It isn't in my nature after all."

"What do you want?" Sherlock's icy tone cut through Moriarty's lighthearted speech.

"Sherlock…" Moriarty reproached. "I've told you what I want, and it does tire me to repeat myself." I will burn the heart out of you. Sherlock remembered very well what Moriarty had said that night at the pool. That he was going to kill Sherlock, but was saving it up for something special. Before that, he was going to destroy him. Sherlock thought of John, trapped in the hands of this sadistic madman, and rage burned like a fire in his core, spreading throughout his entire being until he was trembling with it.

"I'll be seeing you soon." Sherlock said frostily. And then he hung up. Lestrade watched his friend carefully, worried that Sherlock would explode under this pressure. He wasn't used to dealing with emotions when working a case. Hell, he wasn't used to dealing with emotions period, and Greg wasn't sure how Sherlock would handle it, especially without John there to guide him.

Thirty minutes after the call, Sherlock received a video. Mycroft was at the flat at this point, having arrived after Greg informed him of Moriarty's taunt. He stood behind his brother, a pillar of strength for him to draw from, as he opened the file and pressed play.

Sitting in the middle of the shot, tied to a chair, was John. Sherlock's heart leapt and dropped at the sight of him. Relief at seeing John alive, and pure dread at seeing the state he was in. John's head hung limply from his shoulders, as if he lacked the energy to even hold it up. His clothes were dirtied with sweat and blood. The sight of it made Sherlock's stomach turn. He was seated in what looked like a warehouse of sorts; one with shipping containers and old construction materials. Sherlock would focus on the location the second time he watched, right now, he couldn't tear his eyes from John.

"It's a live feed." Lestrade murmured, pointing to the time running at the top of the screen. He looked up to Mycroft, who nodded. He would find out if this footage was truly live, or if it was just an illusion to fool them.

The sound of footsteps approaching roused John and he raised his head defiantly. He would always be a soldier at heart, and face anything, even death, with his head held high. Sherlock felt a surge of pride for his soldier, even as his heart clenched with fear.

"Hello again John" Sebastian Moran stepped into view of the camera. "Ready for another go?" He smiled menacingly, but John would not be intimidated.

"Shall we pick up where we left off?" John asked drily, his voice gruff and weary, but still strong. Sherlock almost smiled. Moran however, was not amused by John's retort, and answered it by lunging swiftly forward and landing a hard punch to John's jaw. Sherlock shuddered at the sound of bone connecting bone. The air left John in a huff, but he did not cry out. Despite even the broken nose that Sherlock could clearly see from this angle. John leaned forward and spit at Moran's feet; a combination of saliva and blood.

Moran swung at him again, this time, his fist connecting with John's ribs. Again, the air left John's lung in a huff, but he did not make a noise. Sherlock could see him grit his teeth against the pain.

"I've got a special treat for you today John." Moran taunted, moving somewhere off screen. "You see this little camera up here?" John eyes followed his finger and found the camera. Sherlock tensed when their eyes locked, at least that's what it felt like.

"It's not just so we can keep an eye on you, you see, we have some special viewers tuning in this morning. I'm sure I don't have to tell you who it is." John's head shot back up to the camera, this time knowing who he was looking at. His eyes were pleading. "Sherlock." He whispered gruffly. This was made all the worse knowing that Sherlock was witnessing his pain. He was determined anew to get through this with his head held high, not for his pride's sake, but for Sherlock's.

"It's alright." John said to the camera, "I'm alright." Sherlock wanted to look away from his lover's gaze, but his eyes were trapped to the image before him. Moran was entering the shot again, with something in his hands that Sherlock couldn't quite make out. Judging by John's stiffened shoulders, he knew exactly what was about to happen.

He moved forward and took hold of John's shirt, ripping it open down the front. Sherlock flinched slightly at the sudden movement, and the sight of John's already bruising stomach. Moran attached two medal hooks resembling jumper cables to the arms of the metal chair John was tied to. Bile rose in Sherlock's throat as realization hit him.

"Would you prefer to be gagged Dr. Watson?" John raised his head to meet Moran's gaze. He wanted to say yes, so badly, but he refused to speak.

"No? Good. I want him to hear you scream." John clenched his teeth. He focused on Sherlock, sitting at home, and how he would be suffering. John didn't want to make this any harder on him. He would not scream. As Moran moved to the control box, John pictured Sherlock in his mind; cheeks flushed with the excitement of a new case, coat twirling behind him, he lean body moving under that purple shirt John loved, his face as he laid under John, eyes screwed shut with pleasure. Moran flipped the switch.

Agony ripped through John, burning him up from the inside. He grit his teeth, but could not help the groan that tore from his throat. His whole body taut, straining against the bonds that held him. His vision went white, and he couldn't think of anything but the pain. Just when he thought he was going to black out, it stopped. He sagged into his seat, unable to hold his head up, gasping for breath. Residual shocks zapped through his body, phantoms of the electricity that had just been flowing through his veins.

Sherlock's knuckles were white they were clenched so hard. He was trembling with the effort it took to sit still and watch this happen. He wanted to jump up, to scream, to hurt someone, anyone, if only to make this stop. But he couldn't do any of those things, and he knew that. He had to be strong for John, even though John couldn't see him.

Before John had a chance to recover from the first shock, Moran was flipping the switch again. John groaned, his body shaking from the effort of containing this pain. He felt like he was dying. He was burning up, his insides exploding within in him at a rapid pace. There would be nothing left of him but goo if they kept this up. He could almost feel his lungs liquefying. And then it was over. John's ragged breaths hitched in his throat. He didn't know how much of this he could take. His heart felt ready to burst from his chest.

Sherlock was on the edge of his seat, halfway to standing. He couldn't just sit here and do nothing while John suffered! He couldn't think, he couldn't deduce, all he could see was John. Desperation was overwhelming him.

Mycroft was right, caring is not an advantage.


	17. John Watson

Moran stepped in front of the camera and raised his face to it, his lips curled into a malicious grin.

"Until next time, Sherlock." And the footage cut out. Sherlock stood immediately, unable to sit still a second more. He began to pace the flat, trying to rid himself of this nervous energy, of the sinking feeling of dread in his stomach, of the ache that was tearing a hole through him. He needed to focus, to think.

Mycroft and Lestrade said nothing, just watched as Sherlock paced about the flat. After a few minutes Sherlock sighed heavily and dropped back into his seat, head in his hands. Mycroft put a reassuring hand on Sherlock's shoulder, unable to offer his brother any words of comfort. He knew Sherlock would not want to hear them. He gave his shoulder a squeeze and then went into the kitchen to leave Sherlock alone. Greg followed close behind.

"Myc-" Greg whispered fretfully. Mycroft turned to meet a gaze that was equal parts rage and desperate sadness.

"I know." He replied gently, "We will bring him home."

 

In the other room, Sherlock received a text.

Come alone. –M

Where? -SH

At the start.-M

Sherlock put his hands under his chin in his signature thinking position. Where would Moriarty have taken John? It is obviously a place of significance. 'The start', which start would he be talking about. The place they first met? No, too obvious. The pool? No, not there either. The first crime scene? Where Alan Fortz was murdered. Could be. Sherlock's eyes sprang open as realization hit him. He was up and out of the flat within seconds.

Sherlock slowly entered the empty school building. The same school the cabbie had taken him the very first time he had learned of Moriarty's existence. 'At the start', how clever. He made his way cautiously, but quickly, to the room where the cabbie had challenged him to his deadly game. It was empty.

There was an envelope sitting on the table, with Sherlock's name written in big capital letters. Inside was an address, nothing more. Sherlock left immediately. He paid extra to have the cabbie speed.

When he arrived at the abandoned warehouse, he drew his gun, and entered. There were no lights inside, but late evening light shone through the open windows making it easy to see. The warehouse was full with rows of shelves filled with various old construction materials. Plastic sheets hung down in some places, limiting Sherlock's sight even more. He picked a row and made his way forward. He had to get to John.

Footsteps made Sherlock freeze where he stood. They were coming from the next aisle over, heading his way. He held his breath and waited as one of Moriarty's men rounded the corner. Before he knew what hit him, Sherlock brought the butt of his gun down on the back of the man's head, knocking him unconscious. Sherlock caught his body as he fell, and lowered him soundlessly to the ground. No sense in alerting the others of his presence.

The next guard was taken out in much the same way, and soon Sherlock was looking out into a big opening, free of shelves and equipment, save for a couple of pieces of plywood. At the far end of this empty space, tied to a metal chair, sat John Watson, his John. Sherlock resisted the urge to run straight to him and instead let his eyes sweep the room; there would be more guards, he was sure of it. This was much too easy.

He tried to swallow down the immense feeling of relief as he rushed to John. He knew this was all part of Moriarty's plan. Letting him get just far enough to make him think he had won, and then killing John before his very eyes. As he knelt to rouse John, he slid his hand into his pocket and pressed Send.

"Sherlock?" John groaned hazily.

"Yes John, I'm here." He laid his hand on John's face, raising it to meet his eyes. John sighed and leaned into the touch.

"Thank god." Sherlock placed a light kiss on John's forehead.

"It's not over yet." He whispered. With that he stood up and turned to face Sebastian Moran.

"I'll be having that gun now." Moran sneered. Sherlock did not lower his weapon.

"Don't make this difficult. Put the gun down or I shoot your precious John."

"Shoot him and you're dead." Sherlock threatened.

"Maybe," Moran answered slowly, "But he'll be dead too."

"Sherlock just shoot him." John groaned. He just wanted this to be over. Moran raised an eyebrow, as if daring Sherlock to take that chance. Sherlock held his ground for several seconds before lowering his gun to the floor and kicking it away from him.

"Good choice." Sherlock once again let his eyes scan the room.

"He's not here you know." Moran said. "It's just me. Jim thought I could handle it, and he has better things to do. I'll show him the footage later." He nodded toward the camera that Sherlock had been on the other end of not too long ago.

"He won't be needing it." Sherlock said coldly.

"Oh? And why's that?"

"There won't be anything on it except your death, and that's hardly worth watching."

Moran threw his head back and laughed. Sherlock stood still, his gaze unwavering. He could feel the tension rolling off John in waves. John believed in him wholeheartedly, but those were big words, even for Sherlock.

"So you're going to kill me I suppose?" Moran drawled.

"No." Sherlock said simply. "I'm just going to stand here. Stupid people have a tendency to get themselves killed, and you clearly have the lowest intelligence in the room." Sherlock narrowed his eyes and really looked at Moran before continuing.

"Dropped out of high school to join the military. Daddy abused you in the worst way so you enlisted to prove you were still a man. Though, your time in the army proved you really did love to take it up the ass, just like Daddy always said. You moved up quickly, Navy Seal to Special Forces, not because of intelligence, but because of your brutality and ability to kill first, ask questions later. You're strong and stealthy, but require leadership because you don't have the brains for it. That's how you ended up in the employment of Moriarty. He paid better, and allowed you to fulfill your sadistic impulses. You were always destined to be a criminal." Sherlock paused for just a second before continuing,

"Oh, and when he's not too bothered, our friend Jim allows you to be the tight hole-" Sherlock was cut off by Moran's scream of fury.

"You fucking son of a bitch! I'll fucking kill you for saying that!" He rushed toward Sherlock, but before he could take two steps, a bullet ripped through his brain and he collapsed to the ground. John started at the sudden shot, but Sherlock didn't even blink. He knew it was coming.

"I do hate it when they misbehave." Moriarty said with mock sadness. Sherlock turned as Moriarty put his gun back in his pocket. John tensed at the sound of his voice, and the fact that Moriarty was behind him where he couldn't see. He silently cursed Sherlock for not untying him.

"I'm sure it's a huge disappointment." Sherlock deadpanned. Moriarty just laughed and starting walking toward John's field of vision.

"You don't have that problem do you?" Moriarty asked. "You've got quite an obedient pet in John Watson. Loyal too. Such a shame you'll have to watch him die." Sherlock just raised an eyebrow, and Moriarty smiled.

"Please, continue." Sherlock said with a wave of his hand. Moriarty's gaze moved to John. Sherlock turned to see that a red dot was hovering right between John's eyes. He locked his gaze with John, and John seemed to understand what was going on. He knew there was a sniper trained on him, but he didn't look scared. He looked determined.

"Rather dull isn't it?" Sherlock had turned back to Moriarty, who just shrugged.

"I die, John dies." He said. "Simple yet efficient."

"All this work, and you're just going to shoot him? And then me I supposed."

"Oh I'm not going to shoot him. That's just to keep you from getting any ideas." Moriarty's grin disappeared as he continued. "I'm going to make him suffer. I'll make him beg for death, and even then I won't give it. No, I'm going to make him suffer, until you, Sherlock, beg me to kill him, just to put him out of his misery. And then when he's dead, I'm going to kill you."

"Sounds lovely." Sherlock's voice dripped with sarcasm despite the knot of fear curling in his stomach. He wanted to reach back and touch John, just to reassure him that everything would be alright, that he would not let this madman touch him, but he knew that would only egg Moriarty on more.

Moriarty slowly removed his suit jacket and threw it to the side. "Catch." He called as his jacket landed on Moran's dead body. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, but he just shrugged, as if his behavior was perfectly normal. Sherlock's mind was in a rapid whir as Moriarty began to roll up his sleeves. He needed to stall.

"I thought you didn't like to get your hands dirty." Sherlock said.

"Well you did make me kill my best instrument of torture." Moriarty gestured to Moran. "But don't worry, I have a backup." He smiled as he grabbed a chair and pulled it across from John to sit down. He was within reaching distance of Sherlock, but he knew better than to lunge at him. His brow knit in confusion as he looked at the man sitting in front of him.

Suddenly there was another man entering the room. He held a gun in one hand, pointed at Sherlock, and a chair in the other. He placed the chair next to Sherlock and motioned for him to sit. When Sherlock complied, the man tied his arms behind his back and his legs to the chair. They were now sitting in a triangle, John, Sherlock, and Moriarty. Even if this other man were to stand directly in front of John, Sherlock would still have a perfect view. He knew he was going to have to watch John be tortured, and he tried to use this knowledge to brace himself against what he was going to see. But there was no way to prepare to watch the one you love suffer.

Without warning, the man pulled a knife and drove it into John's thigh. John couldn't help the scream that tore from his lips. He had not been prepared for that, and the shock almost intensified the pain.

"John!" Sherlock strained forward against his restraints. John was breathing heavily, body shaking from the pain. Sherlock looked on helplessly, rage coiling its way through him. Getting right down to business then; this man was not playing any games. Sherlock had been hoping for another Moran, one who would want to gloat and goad. But this man was different, the way he looked at John was almost clinical. There was nothing in his eyes, no anger, no excitement, no rush of power. They were just empty. This was not the kind of man he wanted anywhere near his John. This was the worst kind of man, a man that felt nothing at all.

"Stop this." He commanded icily. He looked at Moriarty as he spoke, who just grinned and shrugged, looking to the other man. Sherlock redirected his attention to the torturer, and watched as he brutally pulled the knife from John's leg. It seemed he was going to be the silent, scary type. No matter, Sherlock didn't need to talk to him. He already knew everything he needed to know about him.

"John look at me." Sherlock said softly. John raised his head wearily, eyes watery from the pain, his face red and worn. When he met Sherlock's gaze his eyes softened. Just being in his presence was a comfort, to know he wasn't alone. Something in Sherlock's gaze calmed him. He could see in his eyes that he had a plan. He was waiting for something. He hadn't given up hope. John trusted the confidence he saw there.

"How touching." Moriarty crooned. "This is your weakness Sherlock. This is why you could never have beaten me. You're too weak." Sherlock kept his gaze locked with John's when something changed. He turned his head slowly and let his mouth slide into a smile. This was what he had been waiting for.

"You might want to reevaluate your position." He said with a chuckle. Moriarty's brows knit together as he frowned, and Sherlock had the pleasure of seeing that surprised look on his face before a bullet hit his torturer between the eyes. He stood, but it was too late. Another shot rang through the air, and Moriarty crumpled to the ground. John let out a sigh of relief, and then promptly passed out.


	18. Waking Up

John drifted in and out of consciousness as he was being carted away by the ambulance.

"It certainly took you long enough to arrive." Sherlock's voice floated to his ears from far away. John wondered briefly if he was underwater.

"You could have given me more of a head's up you know." Lestrade was there too then. Were they all in the water?

"Sherlock." Mycroft sounding reproachful. John tried to open his eyes but it was too bright and his eyelids were too heavy. He wanted to see Sherlock, to know what was going on, but he was too tired. Blackness was claiming him.

"Nice shot." Sherlock said to his brother. John didn't hear anything after that.

When he woke up, he was in a hospital bed. He groaned at the ache in his bones, everything hurt. He hadn't been this sore since Afghanistan. Suddenly there was a hand in his. He turned his head to find Sherlock, sitting at his bedside, staring at him intently.

"John." Was all he said. It was enough. John sighed and closed his eyes, squeezing Sherlock's hand gently. The relief he felt was overwhelming. Moriarty was dead, he was alive, and Sherlock was with him. It was all over.

"What happened?" John asked, his voice raspy. He tried to clear his throat but winced at the sharp pain in his ribs.

"Careful John, you have two broken ribs. Your nose is broken as well, and you have a nasty stab wound in your leg, plus a lot of bruises. But you'll survive." John looked at Sherlock and returned the grin he found on his friend's face. He could see how relieved Sherlock was as well.

"Prat." He joked lightly. Sherlock chuckled and ran his free hand through John's hair. John smiled and closed his eyes at the touch.

"You knew." John said as he remembered. "How did you know when they got there? How did Lestrade even know where we were?" John thought back and tried to remember if there was any indication of their arrival. "Mycroft. He was there too?" Sherlock nodded, waiting to see what John knew.

"He's the one that shot Moriarty." John recalled that brief bit of conversation he heard before he blacked out completely. Sherlock nodded again.

"I had to come alone. He would know if I didn't." Sherlock began. "But I knew I couldn't get you out on my own, especially when I was walking into his trap. When I found you, I called Lestrade. I had his number queued up in advance. I knew he would get the call, realize I wasn't talking, and trace it to find our location. I had hoped he would have shown up a bit sooner." Sherlock scowled at the wall before turning somber.

"I'm truly sorry John. Those things should never have happened to you, I shouldn't have let anyone touch you, I-"

"Shh." John cut off Sherlock's apology. "You saved me Sherlock. That's all that matters, and I will be eternally grateful for it. Don't apologize for what they did." He brought Sherlock's hand to his lips and kissed it gently. "Thank you." He whispered.

Sherlock took a shuddering breath. He was always amazed by John, and he was convinced he always would be.

"Mycroft's men would most certainly be coming with Lestrade." Sherlock continued his story. "Despite their faults, they are extremely efficient. They would take out the sniper first. Turns out there were three of them." He added. John shuddered at the thought.

"When the light disappeared from your forehead I knew that our help had arrived. Moriarty hadn't given a signal for the sniper to stand down, so it must have been our men. The rest I think you recall." John nodded, thinking it all over. He was glad to be putting this whole thing behind him. What a mess it had become.

"What about the boy?"

"He's being placed into foster care. He'll inherit a small fortune when he turns 18, courtesy of my dear brother." John snorted at the endearment. He would make a point to see Hamish as soon as he could. He wanted to help that boy, and he would provide whatever support he could.

"You want to adopt him don't you?" Sherlock asked softly. John hadn't known it himself, but as soon as Sherlock said it he realized that he did. He really wanted to. He wanted to raise that boy, to give him the love he deserved and the guidance he needed. John saw himself in Hamish, and he wanted to do for him what nobody had been able to do for John.

John stared at Sherlock with wide eyes as the realization dawned on him. But Sherlock wouldn't want to have a kid, would he? Would they even be good parents? Sherlock must have seen the question in his eyes because he just stroked John's hand and whispered, "We'll talk about it, okay?" John nodded and smiled gently.

"I love you." He told Sherlock softly. Sherlock smiled and bent to press a lingering kiss to John's lips.

"I love you too John."

The End.


	19. Epilogue

Epilogue

"Hamish! Time for dinner!" John called up the stairs. Less than five seconds later he heard the sound of small feet pounding down the stairs.

"Hey bud." John said fondly as he ruffled his son's hair when he entered the kitchen. Hamish looked at the table, then over his shoulder at Sherlock, sitting in the other room, eyes glued to something through his microscope.

"Dad's not eating dinner." Hamish pouted.

"I'm working." Sherlock called without looking up.

"So I am." Hamish replied stubbornly, referring to the school project he was creating in his room. He stood his ground, crossing his arms over his chest and setting his jaw. Stubborn as a mule, John thought. The both of them.

"Hamish, sit down." John cut off whatever Hamish was about to say with, "I don't want to hear it, you have to eat."

"But-"

"No buts." John stared Hamish down until he sighed and took his place at the table. John smiled and squeezed his shoulder.

"Sherlock," John called. "Get in here and sit down with your family. I'm sure you can spare fifteen minutes." Sherlock didn't look like he was going to get up. John walked over to him and wrapped his arms around the slender man. Breathing in his ear as he whispered,

"Please Sherlock? I'll make it worth your while." He nipped Sherlock's ear playfully, just to make sure the other man knew his intentions. Sherlock grinned, eyes still fixed on the microscope.

"I intend to hold you to that Dr. Watson." Sherlock's voice was downright sinful. John couldn't stop the shudder that raced down his spine.

"Later." He whispered and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's cheek before grabbing his hand and dragging him to the table.

As they sat down to eat, John looked between Sherlock and Hamish. It had been two years since that whole business with Moriarty, and Hamish had become their son, and John could still hardly believe it. Looking back on those horrible few months, and everything he and Sherlock had been through, he couldn't bring himself to wish it had never happened. All their struggles and suffering had lead them to where they are now, and they had an amazing son to show for it. John's heart swelled with love and pride every time he looked at his boy. He had come so far, and grown so much, and despite his terrible beginnings, he was a happy and energetic child. John's greatest joy, and biggest challenge.

Sherlock and Hamish were talking animatedly about some science project Hamish was working on for school. Sherlock had instilled a love of science into Hamish the moment they brought him home and he saw all Sherlock's experiments. John smiled as he watched the pair, content to just sit and listen. He loved to watch Sherlock when he was with Hamish. Despite his fears, Sherlock was an amazing father, and John could see in his eyes that he loved Hamish more than anything. Whenever Sherlock was with their son, he had a light in his eyes that John never saw anywhere else.

At first, it was difficult for them to adjust to family life, especially Sherlock. His behavior wasn't exactly the kind you want your child to grow up emulating. But Sherlock did his best to act like an adult, and when he was in one of his moods, he lashed out at John instead of Hamish. They still solved cases, though John tried his hardest to keep Sherlock from those life threatening situations he always seemed to be drawn to. When it came down to it, they'd had to make some changes in their lives, but some things would always be the same. Sherlock was still insane, obnoxious, rude, completely oblivious to social propriety, and an utter genius. He was a pain in John's ass, but he loved him more than ever.

Looking at his family now, John felt so blessed. He didn't know what he had ever done to deserve such a gift, but he would treasure it every day. He had never imagined his life turning out the way it did, but he wouldn't have it any other way. He was happier than he had ever been, and life was good.

Something that sounded like a small explosion came from upstairs and interrupted their dinner. John's eyes darted between the two across from him. Hamish looked rightfully abashed. Eyes cast down at the table, in a classic position of guilt. Sherlock eyes glittered with amusement as he met John's gaze.

"You two are cleaning that up as soon as you're done with dinner." Sherlock just laughed, giving John a playful salute.

"Yes sir." He elbowed the boy next to him gently. Hamish was trying to hide his own smile.

"Yes sir." Hamish echoed. "Sorry Daddy." He added as an afterthought. John just sighed and continued to eat his dinner.

Yes, life was good in 221B Baker Street. But he never said it was easy.


End file.
